In the Clearing
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: John is diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. Sherlock and he deal with it and its after effects.
1. Chapter 1

A/N – I once again bow to ScopesMonkey.

Warnings – A major character has a serious illness and this story revolves around unpleasantness of that. There will also be sexual situations, dirty words, etc. Be warned.

* * *

><p>In the Clearing…<p>

…stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade  
>And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down or cut him<br>'Til he cried out in his anger and his shame  
>I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains. ~ Paul Simon <em>The Boxer<em>

Sherlock walks into the bedroom with the tray balanced on one hip. He stares at John a moment, asleep with the covers pulled up almost to his eyes. He is almost the same colour as the sheets surrounding him, almost paler than Sherlock himself. The detective frowns, noticing the sheen of sweat covering John's brow. Sweating and still cold enough to be bundled under the covers.

Sherlock crosses the room and sits the tray on the bedside table. He picks up the glass of water that has been sitting there and replaces it with a new one. He's done this every few hours for the last four days, ever since John came home sick from the clinic.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and John doesn't stir. Sherlock watches him for another second before becoming alarmed with the realisation that if it wasn't for the sounds of the quiet snores John might very well appear dead. He chokes back a horrified gasp and pushes the thought away.

_It's just the flu, John just has the flu. _

He leans over and gently places a kiss against his husband's forehead. It was still too warm. Sherlock brushes the back of his fingers over the forehead and estimates that it was still almost exactly the same as it was four days ago. It hasn't fluctuated at all, even with the medication. Sherlock finds this particularly alarming, but John keeps insisting that it isn't high enough to be concerned about.

Typical doctor being a horrible patient.

Sherlock grabs a napkin off the tray and dabs it across John's forehead and cheek, wiping away some of the moisture. He doesn't like the sweating at all or the dry cough - or any of it. He doesn't like John being sick.

He sets the napkin aside and runs his fingers through John's hair. "John," he whispers and the doctor doesn't stir. This is something else out of the ordinary, John is usually very easy to awaken. He moves his hand around and cups the too warm cheek. "John," he says a little louder. The doctor moves at that but snuggles deeper into the pillow. Sherlock's frown grows as he finally puts his hand on John's shoulder and shakes gently. "John," he says much closer to a normal volume and the hazel eyes snap open and stare up at him.

They are glassy but still alert. He eyes Sherlock, reconciling this moment with whatever he was just dreaming, then he sucks a deep breath through his nose and stretches. Sherlock doesn't miss the slight wince as the muscles and joints ache because of the illness and the lack of activity. John doesn't say anything about that though, just rolls onto his back, letting out a yawn as he pushes himself up to sit against the headboard.

"You were asleep for almost seven hours," Sherlock states. He knows the exact amount of time down to the second but John tends to find information that detailed unnecessary so Sherlock rounds. John frowns but doesn't seemed alarmed. Sherlock wishes he were alarmed.

"This is one hell of a flu bug," he says, letting out another yawn. He pulls the blanket up higher on his body, shivering. Sherlock has had the heat on for two days and is walking around in little else but boxers and an undershirt. It's stifling in flat, but he won't complain.

Sherlock just nods, gesturing to the tray. "I have brought medication and some food and beverage for caloric intake. Which would you like first?"

John frowns and Sherlock knows that he is not hungry. He's hoping that John will consent to eat without a fight though. Sherlock is prepared to fight, if necessary, prepared to win.

"I'll have some toast," John says after a moment and Sherlock reaches for it. "Plain please." Sherlock nods handing over the lightly buttered bread. The detective studies his husband's features intently while he eats, prepared to grab the bucket from the floor at the first sign of nausea. It doesn't come though. John handles the toast today; he'd been unable to do that yesterday.

It's a sign he's getting better, the detective tells himself. Sherlock then hands over the orange juice and the pills. John needs the ascorbic acid to help his recovery, and it is recommended to take the medication with juice or milk. John doesn't drink plain milk.

The pills, too, go down without incident and John drinks most of the orange juice. Sherlock lets himself smile as he sets the ginger ale next to the glass of water. He's greeted with a smile in return. It's the first real one he's seen in days.

John's eyes flash to the dresser and Sherlock knows that he's spotted the skull. Sherlock feels better knowing that it is in the room with John at all times, that there are eyes always watching. He knows it is ridiculous, it's a skull and cannot actually convey information. However it does no harm, either, so it will stay.

"If your fever has not dropped by tomorrow I want you to see a doctor." Sherlock broaches the subject directly and before he's finished speaking John is shaking his head. "Yes," Sherlock adds quickly before John can argue.

"I am a doctor," he says.

"And you are asleep all the time. How are you supposed to tell me how to properly care for you if you are unconscious?"

"You are caring for me perfectly," John says reaching a hand up to scratch his head. He lets it fall to his shoulder settling his fingers along the back of his neck. He rubs there.

"Yet you are not improving." John shakes his head. He brings the fingers behind his left ear and Sherlock expects him to let the hand drop. He pauses, running his fingers down his neck.

"I have the…" he starts but trails off. Sherlock watches him, watches the fingers on their smooth journey.

"What?" he asks, momentarily alarmed. John huffs out a sigh and shakes his head again.

"Nothing, the lymph node is swollen," he drags his fingers around to the front and press under his jaw. Sherlock knows this gesture and watches as the other hand comes up, checking both sides. "Swollen up here, too."

"Doesn't that mean that you are ill and should see a doctor?"

John sighs again, letting his hands drop. "It means that my body is processing something that it doesn't like. They swell for all kinds of reasons that don't require a doctor's visit: allergies, colds."

Sherlock feels a pang of concern, it is one of the few downfalls he has found with being in love with John. He worries, almost constantly, about his husband's wellbeing. He reaches a hand over and places it on John's thigh. He really doesn't want to fight.

"Please," he says. The pleasantry is rarely used and therefore almost always works. Sherlock can see in the split second before John huffs in annoyance that it has worked today.

"Will it make you feel better if I go?" Sherlock nods immediately. John huffs again. "All right then. Will you call the clinic? I'll go first thing in the morning."

"Of course," Sherlock says. "Would you like me to request a specific doctor?" Sherlock knows that John likes some of the doctors on a personal level and some of them he respects. He doesn't, however, know which one John wants to see when ill.

"Matthews if he's available, if not Henderson." There is a clip in his voice that means he's annoyed with Sherlock. Usually the detective would be concerned with this, he doesn't like when John is unhappy with him, but he will ignore it today. John doesn't feel well and has consented to go to the doctor. That is all that matters.

John pushes himself back down into the bed and pulls the covers up. He rolls over and faces away from Sherlock, another indication that he is annoyed. Sherlock ignores this, too. He gathers up his items on the tray, stands, and head back down stairs. He puts everything away and settles on the couch with his mobile. He dials one of the two phone numbers he hasn't deleted from his memory, both of which easily connect him to John. The receptionist answers.

"Hello, Emily, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she interrupts, Sherlock often finds her pleasantness annoying. "How is Dr. Watson feeling?" Her concern is genuine.

"He is still not well. Is Dr. Matthews available to see him tomorrow?"

"Let me double check, but I'm sure we can fit him in. We're missing him around here." Sherlock pushes down distaste at this. Emily has worked with John for almost six years, it is understandable that his absence would be noticeable in her daily routine. She puts him on hold and he listens to the annoying recording relaying their hours intermixed with horrendous instrumental music. He holds the phone away from his ear so that he doesn't have to actually hear it. It takes exactly 179 seconds for her to come back on the line.

"We can get him in tomorrow morning at 10:30, will that work?"

"Certainly," Sherlock replies.

"We'll see you then." He hears her typing, probably entering John's appointment into the computer. Sherlock rings off and tosses the phone onto the couch. He sighs and brings his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He rests his forehead on his knees. He only sits there for a minute before he unfolds himself and climbs the stairs again.

John is curled up under the covers facing Sherlock's side of the bed. The detective climbs in. John opens his eyes and Sherlock can immediately tell that he is no longer annoyed. Sherlock throws an arm and a leg over the doctor and presses their bodies together. John lets out a contented noise and puts his forehead against Sherlock's chest. The detective can feel the heat radiating off his husband, he rests his chin on the top of John's head and holds him until he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

John stares at his chin in the mirror. He examines the spot underneath his jaw; it's so swollen at that he can see it. He frowns as he drags his fingers behind his ear and down. He feels the swelling there too, hard to the touch. Neither of them hurt or even feel uncomfortable. He frowns at that, bringing his hands down. He rests them on the counter and leans forward putting his face just inches from the mirror. He examines his eyes and his coloring. He looks sick. He feels sick. That's the fever.

He straightens and takes the towel from around his waist and lets it fall to the floor. He backs up so that he can see his chest in the mirror. He's lost a few pounds since he's been ill, but nothing drastic. While he hasn't eaten much, Sherlock has made sure what he has eaten has been high in calories. He smiles; Sherlock could probably tell him exactly how much he's lost just by looking at him. It's the kind of thing Sherlock can do.

His face grows serious again and he takes a deep breath. He lifts his left arm and brings his right hand up and presses into his armpit and down his side. He realises that he's holding his breath as he does so and makes himself release it. He pays attention to his breathing as he continues downwards. He drops that arm and lifts the other one, repeating the process. He makes himself breathe with each touch. He drops that arm and sighs. He nods his head determinedly as he starts to move his fingers down his chest, pressing into the area around his clavicles and moving down along his sternum. He stops at his diaphragm, the great divider of the body. He takes another deep breath and moves his fingers downward pressing down the middle of his chest and towards his abdomen.

He looks down his body, examining himself before pressing his fingers into his groin. He presses along his pelvis and above his thighs. His hands are shaking he realises but he makes himself be thorough. He releases a deep breath as he pulls his hands away. He rubs them over his face quickly and press them into his neck again. He feels the two swollen nodes, the only two swollen nodes. He could just be sick. It's probably just the flu.

He hears Sherlock opening the door and drops his hands quickly. He bends to pick up his towel as the door opens.

"You have spent and unusually long amount of time in here," he states. John nods.

"I'm tired, moving a little slowly." He deliberately doesn't look at his husband, instead going about the menial tasks in the bathroom. He reaches for his toothbrush and the toothpaste. He knows that Sherlock is watching him, evaluating, and he doesn't want that today.

"We will need to leave in ten minutes," the detective says.

"You don't need to come with me, I'm an adult and can go to the doctor by myself."

He hears Sherlock shift his weight. "I will not be inconvenienced by this. I am concerned."

"No," he says and musters the courage to turn and face him. Sherlock is frowning, and John focuses on the anger. It isn't too difficult. "I can go by myself. You haven't taken a case in almost a week. I know Lestrade called you. I'll be back by the time you get home."

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment and John can see the gears turning. He knows that something is wrong. The key is to convince him that it's just because John is angry. Sherlock will avoid anger. The detective nods, not happy, but accepting.

"Call me when you are finished with the doctor. I wish to know what he says." John nods and turns back to the mirror. Sherlock watches him for another moment before John hears him move away and the door closes. The relief sweeps over him and a wave and he has to grab onto the counter to prevent himself from collapsing.

* * *

><p>Dr. Matthews brow furrows as he meets John's eyes. He nods and walks over to the sink to wash his hands.<p>

"I'm serious," John says.

Matthews nods. "I don't doubt that. I've known you quite a few years now, you've never been seriously ill in all that time. You've never appeared to be a hypochondriac or someone who generally overreacts. But you are aware that all of those symptoms are the symptoms of dozens of other things. Thousands if we include all possible bacterium and viruses." John nods, he does know that. He also knows himself and none of those feel right. The worst case scenario is what feels right.

Matthews comes back over and presses his fingers into John's throat. He feels it immediately and John sees the frown appear on his face. He moves his hand around and feels the one behind John's ear. The frown stays the same.

"The fever isn't going away with medicine, night sweats, dry cough…" he trails off as Matthews steps back.

"They don't hurt?"

"Not at all." Matthews nods and grabs the tablet and starts making notations. "Lie back let me feel the rest."

"Those are the only two," John says but lies back on the table anyway. He unbuttons his jeans and pushes the flaps open. Then he lifts his arms above his head. Matthews starts to move his fingers over John's body, mimicking John's own movements from earlier. The pressure causes him to wince several times, especially as he moves to the groin.

"The rest feel fine. The lab techs are here until four today. I'll have Stephanie come in here and get some blood from you. We'll do a fine needle aspiration on both of them. If those are inconclusive we'll make arrangements to do a regular biopsy." John nods.

"I have some connections at Bart's and a few at University College." He pauses. "If I need them."

Matthews puts a hand on John's shoulder and squeezes. "Even if this is worst case scenario, it looks like best case scenario." John nods again, he does know that.

Matthews squeezes the shoulder again and leaves the room. John sits on the examination table and looks around him. Over the years he's seen countless patients in this very room, but this is the first time he's ever really looked at it. The walls are the shade of taupe hospitals and doctor's offices across the world use. It is supposed to be neutral, calming. John has always found it to be horrendous. This office is one of two that have windows looking out on the street and John can hear the noises: indecipherable voices moving down the street, traffic, sirens.

_Somebody going to emergency, somebody's going to jail. _

The words pop in his head and surprise him. He knows they are from a song, but he can't quite place it. They begin to repeat over and over in his head. He can almost hear the beat that would clue him in to the rest of the song, it's dancing just on the outskirts of his mind.

He brings his hand up and places it behind his ear. He feels the swollen lymph nodes and in an instant it hits him. He hops off the table and darts across the room, barely makes it to the sink before the orange juice Sherlock had forced upon him this morning comes up. He takes a gasping breath and more orange juice comes up followed by stomach acid. His stomach seizes and the dry heaves wrack his body. He panics for a second, his stomach trying to reject what isn't there, prohibiting his lungs from taking in air. He grabs the counter and chokes in a breath. He collapses to his knees, his fingers flexing on the linoleum. He leans his head forward and rests it against counter.

Facts are facts.

* * *

><p>AN - The lyric is taken from the song New York Minute, written by Don Henley. Also thanks to the better half of MonkeyGirl! :o)


	3. Chapter 3

John stares at the photo in front of him, but he hasn't really seen it since the first glance when Matthews handed it to him. He'd known what it meant right away, he'd recognised the Reed-Sternberg cells. The light microscope image is purple and the abnormal cells appear awkwardly large and out of place. John puts his elbows on his desk and pushes his palms into his eye sockets.

He is exhausted.

He takes a deep breath and picks up his phone. Sherlock has texted him four times in the last hour, obviously wondering what is taking so long. He's already wrapped up the case and is at home. Initially, John had blown him off, saying that they were waiting for some blood work. He'd refused to call it a biopsy, even though that is exactly what it was.

A biopsy that had revealed malignant cells in his lymphatic system.

When Matthews had brought the image in they'd both stared at it awkwardly, the news not needing to be delivered. The first thing John thought of was telling Sherlock. How the hell was he going to tell Sherlock? He'd forcibly pushed that thought away and instead focused on the "what's next?" He knew, naturally, but wanted to hear it from someone else. Matthews had easily laid it out for him. A visit to an oncologist - John was a doctor he wouldn't have to wait long - an MRI and a PET scan to verify that there wasn't anything unusual anywhere else, surgery to remove the two nodes they knew about, and probably the surrounding ones as a precaution, and treatment, maybe even chemo.

"John, there is no obvious signs that it is anywhere else. This isn't something that you've suffered with a long time and ignored. It was less than a week. We don't have your blood panel yet, but there are no signs that it started somewhere else and ended up in the lymphatic system. It's Hodgkin's, perfectly treatable Hodgkin's. "

John had nodded at him and Matthews had left. He'd left almost 45 minutes ago.

John has no idea what he's thought about during that time. No idea at all. Dying, he suddenly focuses on the idea of dying. He hasn't updated his will in years, since before he shipped out to Afghanistan. He needs to do that. Not that he has much, but he wants to make it as easy as possible for Sherlock should he die. He will talk to Harry - there has to be a solicitor in her firm that handles things like this.

He wonders if it's normal to feel so casual about this. Is it normal not to feel anything at the prospect of dying?

He mentally berates himself for having such thoughts. He will beat it. It is just cancer, completely beatable cancer. He's seen patients in later stages than him pull through. He can do it too. He has a great support system. He has lots of friends and family: Harry. Mrs. Hudson – and Sherlock.

He has to tell Sherlock.

He opens the last text message and it simply reads, "Why are you still at the doctor's?" John takes a deep breath and his hand shakes as he types out his quick reply.

"I'm on my way right now. Are you still at home?"

He stands, putting the photo in the envelope along with the oncologist's number. His body aches as he moves and he wonders how much of it is in his head and how much is genuine illness. The fact that he can't tell scares him and he stops moving, focusing on his body. After a moment he takes a deep breath and mentally berates himself, again. He knows that he has to be in the right mindset to do this. If he isn't in the right frame of mind, Sherlock will shut down.

And telling Sherlock is his priority right now. Sherlock is his only priority.

His phone rings as he heads to the door. Sherlock's face appears on the screen. He answers it as he heads down the hallway to the back entrance of the clinic. He doesn't want to see other people right now.

"Of course I'm still at home. I've been waiting for you for hours." His tone is annoyed but John knows better. He is worried, apparently justifiably so.

"I'm leaving the clinic now, I was waiting for the results on a few things…"

Sherlock interrupts him. "And? What is wrong with you?" John opens his mouth but doesn't know what he is going to say. He certainly isn't going to tell Sherlock over the phone.

"I'll explain it when I get home. I'm exhausted now and my arms are full. I need to hail a taxi."

"John," Sherlock protests. Patience has never been one of his virtues.

"I'll be home in 20 minutes. I'll see you then." He rings off abruptly and feels guilty about it.

He steps out of the alley and onto the main road and finds a cab right away. He climbs out at Baker Street and goes inside. He doesn't get past the entranceway. He stands at the bottom of the stairs and stares up. He knows the path and had travelled it thousands of times, but it is decidedly different right now.

It is the first time he is coming home a cancer patient. He is going to climb those stairs and tell his husband that he has cancer. He wonders if it will be real then. If he'll feel different then. Certainly he is supposed to feel different. He wishes, just for a moment, that he hadn't gone to the doctor, that he hadn't found out.

He dismisses that. He'd be dead in a year if he hadn't gone.

He hears the door open above his head, obviously Sherlock has been watching out the window for him to arrive. He looks up and meets the grey eyes. Sherlock knows. John knows that he doesn't know details, but he has a very good idea. He's probably had a very good idea since John didn't arrive home at the expected time.

Sometimes it must be horrible to be so smart.

John puts his hand on the railing and begins to pull himself up the stairs. His eyes stay locked with the grey ones and he watches emotions move across them. There are so many that he can't pin them down. He doesn't remember the last time that happened. He moves past Sherlock into their flat. He wants to sit down, he desperately wants to sleep, but he doesn't think that is going to happen, at least not any time soon. This won't be a quick conversation. And he needs to call Harry. He groans internally as he collapses onto the couch. Instead of sitting next to John or in his chair Sherlock stands in the corner, near the kitchen. It is just about as far away from John as he can get and still be in the same room.

"Tell me," he says, crossing his arms and making his body appear smaller. John vaguely wonders at the psychology behind such a stance, but lets the thought float away. Instead, he opens the envelope and pulls out the image. He sets it on the table and points at the cells. Sherlock will recognise them as abnormal. He watches Sherlock make his body taller so that he can get a better view of the image without having to actually come closer to it.

"Reed-Sternberg cells," John says and watches the gears begin to turn in Sherlock's head. He's obviously heard of them before, but doesn't seem to realise what they mean. Sherlock starts chewing on his lower lip and after a moment he gives his head a subtle shake. He doesn't know.

John takes a deep breath, holds his husband's gaze and says simply: "Sherlock, I have Hodgkin's Disease."

Sherlock is thinking again and in an instant recognition crosses his features. He lets out a quiet gasp and slowly sinks to the floor. He reaches out a hand and points in the general direction of the image. "That's cancer, John. Hodgkin's is cancer."

John takes another deep breath and nods his head. "Yes it is."

They sit in silence a long time. Sherlock isn't saying anything and John isn't pushing. John settles back against the couch, resting his head against the cushions and fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Are you certain?" Sherlock finally asks and John straightens.

"Yes, I have to call an oncologist to get another biopsy done and to make sure that it isn't anywhere else, but yeah."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't think that you should have shared this with me until you were certain. I have pending cases. I do not know that I will be able to attend doctor's appointments. You should have waited until you know for sure. Clearly, this is incorrect."

John leans forward planting his elbows on his knees. "Sherlock," he says calmly. "I am certain."

Sherlock nods his head and looks away. He starts to chew on his lip again.

"Why would you tell me this? Why would you get cancer?" His voice is quiet but John can hear every word.

It appears that Sherlock is going to go through all the stages of grief simultaneously.

"This is not fair to me." Sherlock continues, "I have other things to be concerned with."

John continues to sit in silence. "Are you going to be ill? Am I going to have to care for you? I am not skilled at that. Will we b-"

"You're wonderful at taking care of me when I am sick." Sherlock's head snaps around at John's voice and he glares at the doctor.

"I cannot trust you on this. You are not well. You will require a great deal of medical attention."

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you," John says and Sherlock cringes. He probably has a vague notion that he is acting inappropriately. It is all reactionary so John won't allow himself to get angry. Sherlock is just upset and trying to process. As John watches him Sherlock brings his knees up and wraps his arms around them.

"You are incorrect. That," he gestures towards the photo, "is incorrect. You are not seriously ill. It is the flu, you said it was just the flu."

"I was wrong," John replies. Sherlock shakes his head. John wants to stand, wants to go to him, but it won't help.

The silence returns.

"Sherlock?" John finally says after several long minutes. "Why don't we try it this way? You have questions; ask them, one at a time. I'll answer everything that I can honestly. I promise."

The grey eyes are so full of anguish that it makes John's chest ache. This is worse than hearing the news himself. This is worse than anything. He'd rather cut his arm off than cause his husband any pain, and right now Sherlock is suffering.

* * *

><p>Sherlock insisted that he needed to take a walk and John hadn't stopped him. The question and answer session appeared to help calm him. Sherlock tends to do well when there is a lot of information. It gives his mind something to do, allowing him to push the emotions away for a while.<p>

Sherlock had reluctantly asked John to accompany him on the walk, but John had recognised that Sherlock wanted to be alone. John couldn't blame him. He'd sat alone in his office for hours before coming home.

Sherlock left and John is still sitting on the couch. He wonders why this doesn't feel real. Why it feels like it is happening to someone else. Why doesn't he feel like he has cancer?

He rings Harry and gets her voicemail. He is partly annoyed and mostly relieved. He decides not to leave any kind of message. She'll call him back when she sees she missed his call. He'll tell her then, or maybe he'll ask to meet her for lunch or dinner. She is his only relative after all; she deserves to be told in person.

He tosses the phone down and spreads out on the couch. He thinks about what is going to happen next, the doctor's appointments, the MRI, the PET scan, the surgery. He wonders if he'll have to do chemo and how Sherlock will cope if it's a more aggressive form. Then he wonders how Sherlock will hold up if he dies. They are going to have to talk about it, the possibility, but not now, not yet. They need more information first.

He sighs and manages to get up off the couch. He undresses quickly and climbs into the bed. He buries his face into Sherlock's pillow and breathes in the scent of shampoo and his husband. It is familiar and warm and makes him feel good.

He isn't going to die of this. He's spent too much time with Sherlock - all the evidence must be examined and right now all the evidence as pointing at treatable. Right now there is no doubt that he can live.

He stares out the window, focusing on the colour changes as the sun sets. He can only see a tiny corner of the sky from his current angle, but it is a beautiful shade of pink. It reminds him of sitting with Sherlock on a beach in Corsica on their honeymoon and watching the sunset. The sky had been pink all around them. He smiles at the memory and lets his eyes fall closed.

It is dark when he wakes up and he can feel Sherlock in the room with him. He opens his eyes and looks around, seeing his husband in the doorway. Sherlock has changed into pyjamas and is standing with his arms crossed. John wonders about the time but doesn't look. He meets the grey eyes and smiles.

Sherlock starts chewing on his lower lip again and suddenly looks very young. So young that it momentarily takes John's breath away.

"Are you okay?" John finally asks and Sherlock huffs, turning his head in the direction of their closet.

_I'm not the one with cancer_ hangs unspoken between them. John rolls onto his back and opens his arms.

"Come here," he says and a moment later Sherlock climbs up the bed and settles on top. He buries his face into the pillow next to John's head and John wraps his arms around him, placing a kiss into the bony shoulder.

"Don't die," comes the quiet whisper and John squeezes tighter. "Please don't die," Sherlock repeats shoving his arms under John's shoulders and holding him too.

In a flash, John hurts all over. Fear, horror, pain, and anger swirl inside of him and he brings a leg up to wrap around Sherlock's. John holds his husband as tightly as he can, until his muscles protest. Sherlock places a kiss above John's ear and tightens his own grip.

"I won't," John manages around the lump in his throat. "I promise."


	4. Chapter 4

"You don't have to delete all of those things," John says, watching as Sherlock's finger moves across the iPad screen. "You play Angry Birds all the time."

"It is wasting space. The tablet will allow us to consolidate all of the information in one place and it is easily transported and we both know how to use it."

"What information are we going to be storing on it?" John asks looking around the waiting room. He wonders why the other people are here and is tempted to ask Sherlock. At least it will keep him from thinking about going into the tube. He hates having MRIs.

He crosses his legs and shoves his hands under his thighs. He's fidgeting and realising it makes him more nervous.

"It will allow us to keep track of your appointments, all of the test results, everything involved with your recovery." Sherlock has a slight tremble in his fingers as he opens the calendar program and types in today's appointment. John waits until he's done and reaches a hand up to interlock their fingers.

Sherlock notices the joined hands, a look of mild surprise on his features. After a moment, he nods his head and squeezes. Sherlock has been paying special attention to the little touches like this. John has noted that each one is being memorised and categorised. He's touched by the gesture, but he also wishes Sherlock would relax. He wants Sherlock to know that it's still okay to take some of the little things for granted.

John brings their joined fingers up and places a kiss onto the back of Sherlock's hand. It gets them an odd look from an older woman across the room, but John ignores it.

"You can keep track of the appointments and whatever else, but you can probably keep playing the games." Sherlock shakes his head and drags some other program to the delete file. "Plus, you'll remember it all anyway."

He continues to shake his head. "This is too important to risk it. What if I delete something that I think is irrelevant and it turns out to be vital? I am not a medical professional, it is possible I will err." John watches the Angry Birds with the monkeys disappear off the screen. Sherlock doesn't like killing the monkeys because they are 'fellow primates' and should be respected. "Also I don't need to be distracted," Sherlock says almost under his breath.

John's chest tightens. Sherlock never does anything just half way. He won't sit aside and just be supportive, he'll be involved in every aspect of this. Compared with the alternative, him not being there at all, John will take it.

"John Watson," says a female voice and the fingers tighten over John's again. He looks at Sherlock and offers his husband a quick smile.

"I'm coming with you," Sherlock says. John opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it. He'll have to choose his battles in this, just like with everything else. And this is one that he's willing to let go. He stands and pulls on Sherlock's hand, and notices the look of relief on his husband's face.

The woman leads them into a small room. She holds her hand out to John. "I'm Emily and I'll be your tech this afternoon Doctor Watson. Do you have any questions?"

"No," answers John, sitting in one of the chairs. Sherlock stands behind him and John hears fingers moving over the tablet. "I…" John starts but Sherlock interrupts.

"Emily," he begins and he shoves the tablet at her. She takes it, continuing to smile. "These," he points to the screen, "are the lymph nodes where the can…" he still can't say the word, "where the Reed-Sternberg Cells were found. Obviously the MRI should focus in those areas and on all the major organs. I know…"

"Sherlock," John says. "She knows what we are doing here. It's in the prescription."

"That's okay," she says smiling down at John. "It never hurts to verify. May I share some of your information with…" She waits for an introduction.

"This is my husband, Sherlock Holmes. And please feel free." She nods and looks back up at Sherlock.

"We are doing a full body scan today, so we'll get a good view of everything."

"Good," he says, pulling the tablet back. He opens something and John hears some typing noises. He rolls his eyes. Emily notices and her smile grows.

"Well," she says. "You probably know the routine as you're a doctor. The gowns are in the cabinet. I'll give you a few minutes to get changed and then I'll come and get you. The MRI will take several minutes. Unfortunately we have to take you back alone." John can tell Sherlock's going to protest. "We can't have anyone else in the room with him it might affect the image. I'll only keep him about twenty minutes though, I promise."

John looks over his shoulder just as Sherlock gives a curt nod and pulls another chair out of the corner. He sits and continues to work on the tablet.

She exits the room and John stands, grabbing a gown. The continuous sound of fingers on the tablet stop when John pulls his shirt over his head. Sherlock is watching him, it's the same look he has almost every morning as he watches John get dressed. John smiles and tosses the shirt at him.

"Fold that for me please." Sherlock smiles and deftly folds it up. John hands over the jeans and boxers and the process is repeated. He smiles to himself as he starts to work his way into the annoying hospital gown. He's here to get an MRI because he has cancer, Sherlock is writing up a complete case study on it and yet they can still share a sultry thirty seconds as he undresses. He loves his life.

When he's covered again, working the tie on the side, Sherlock begins to type again. John runs a quick hand through the dark curls and watches the grey eyes flutter closed.

He climbs up on the stretcher and turns his head to watch Sherlock work. He rests his fingers on his chest and feels the cool metal on his left hand. He brings his hand up and looks at the ring. He slides it off easily and holds it between his thumb and index finger.

"I can't wear this in," he says and holds it out to Sherlock, who looks up and frowns at the ring. He doesn't like to see it off of John's finger, even if it's being cleaned. Sherlock holds his palm out and John gently sets it down. Sherlock studies it for a minute before dropping it into his left shirt pocket. He taps it once and John smiles at the image of the ring sitting just above Sherlock's heart.

There is a quiet knock at John says: "Come in." Emily pops her head around the door, still with a smile on her face.

"Ready?" she asks and John nods. A large man follows her in and grabs the stretcher to pull John out.

"Twenty minutes," Sherlock says and John looks over at him. His husband is looking at Emily, informing her that there is time limit on this excursion. John almost laughs as Emily looks at her watch.

"If not less," she replies and turns to lead them out into the hallway.

"Thank you," John says when they are out of immediate earshot of Sherlock. "For humouring him."

Emily lets out a little chuckle and pats him on the shoulder. "No problem. It's easy enough to listen. And I'm sure you know the family is often more upset than the patients themselves. It's easy to just be nice."

John nods, wondering if she knows how rare that is, but doesn't say anything else. They push him behind a series of double doors and he can see the tube.

"Have you ever done this before?" she asks and he nods. His throat is suddenly dry. He can't exactly say that he is claustrophobic, but he doesn't like doing this at all.

"A couple of times," he manages to spit out. She gestures to the machine.

"Well then you know what to expect. The loud thumps, the bright lights, the not moving."

"Yeah," John replies feeling the tightening in his chest again.

Emily touches his shoulder again, continuing to offer a smile. "You aren't the only person who hates it. We'll go as fast as we can, I promise."

John is surprised to feel himself relax at her words.

* * *

><p>Another day, another examination table. Sherlock isn't typing this time; the tablet is on the table next to John but Sherlock has taken up a stance at the window. His arms are crossed again and he is nervous. John is, too. This is the do or die appointment, literally. John takes a deep breath and holds it. Sherlock doesn't look away, but reaches out and sets a hand on John's thigh, his thumb tracing an absent pattern.<p>

John closes his eyes and tries to focus on it. Tries to focus on his husband, and the touch and the way it feels. He manages it for a few moments and the fear returns.

He hates this. He hates that he is having to go through this and that Sherlock is having to go through it with him.

He hates cancer.

A quiet knock and the door opens. The oncologist, Erin Ryder, walks in. She's young, but John had asked around and she came very highly recommended. She smiles but it isn't a welcoming easy smile, more a formality.

Sherlock turns away from the window and leans against the table, keeping his arms crossed. John reaches up and forces his hand into the crook of one of the elbows and squeezes the bicep.

"Hello," she says. She grabs a chair and sits down. She has a stack of papers and her own tablet with her. She doesn't look at them though, instead she glances up at John. "How are you feeling, Doctor Watson?"

John can feel his heart pounding in his chest and he wants to vomit. "Tired," he answers truthfully.

"His temperature has returned to normal but he is still sweating at night and has a dry cough."

She glances up at Sherlock, nods, and looks back to John. "How's your appetite? Any weight loss?"

"Normal," John answers. "No significant weight loss. I have lost a few pounds, but I think that's more nerves than loss of appetite."

"Not entirely unexpected," she says. Sherlock huffs. He's been unhappy with John's eating pattern and has not been shy about sharing his opinion.

"Well," she says bringing an image up on her tablet. "I have prepared these to be e-mailed to you." She speaks to Sherlock. They'd discussed this the first time they'd come to see her. She'd happily agreed to provide John with any information that he requested. Sherlock had been pleased.

She turns the tablet around and John recognizes it as the MRI. He gives it a quick look but isn't a radiologist. He doesn't know exactly what he's looking at. "This," she says, "looks good." She runs her finger over John's liver, and kidneys, and pancreas. "Nothing here. These look clear."

He lets out an audible breath he leans forward, resting his head on Sherlock's bicep. "I'm not as happy with the PET scan," she taps on the tablet and brings it up. John can see the two dark spots in his neck and a few tiny spots along one collar bone and under his arm. He frowns at that and Sherlock tenses beside him. John knows that his husband has been studying how to read PET scans. He probably recognises the problem as well.

"Now the spots here," she points to his neck, "are obvious. We'll remove those and the nodes around them." John nods. "But as you can see," she points at the other dark spots. "It looks like there are a few others we need to look into as well. I'm going to check you before you leave, but on your last visit these nodes were showing no signs of swelling. It's very early on in development there."

"But it has spread," John says and Sherlock shifts next to him.

"Yes," she replies. "This will affect a few things."

John nods, Sherlock uncrosses his arms and takes his husband's hand.

John takes another deep breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly. "Well, let's talk about prognosis then."


	5. Chapter 5

"Just drop me here," John says to the cabbie. Traffic has been horrible since he left the surgery and he's giving up and walking the rest of the way. He knows it's a bad idea. He feels good today, better than he has in several days, but he also knows that it can change in an instant.

He climbs out and pays the cabbie.

_Nine months, _he thinks to himself. He can still hear Doctor Ryder's voice as she explained it to them.

"We are looking at nine months, maybe a year." Sherlock had been stiff beside him as they listened to her explain everything and at the phrase "nine months", Sherlock had deflated. John was sure he'd only stayed on his feet because he was leaning against the examination table.

_Nine months, _he thought again. The prospect brings the familiar feeling of panic to the back of his throat. He doesn't like to think about it, it seems so far in the future, even if he knows that it isn't.

He turns on to Baker Street and stares at the stack of paperwork in his hand. He'd spent the morning giving his notice. With the next nine months of his life spent doing chemo he wouldn't be able to work with sick patients anymore. He knew that he'd be welcome back when he was well enough but that provided him with little comfort right now. He remembered when he'd been without a job previously and knew that it wasn't a pleasant experience. Now he was taking that unpleasantness and adding in chemo therapy.

"We are looking at nine months, maybe a year. I doubt that will be warranted, but I want you to be prepared for the possibility. Then radio therapy. The combination is effective at preventing recurrence in lymphomas, Hodgkin's in particular." John had nodded. He'd always known it was a possibility, but that didn't seem to ease the blow when it became a reality. "We won't be using particularly aggressive chemo drugs, but it won't be the easiest ones either." John had expected that as well. He'd forced his fingers between Sherlock's then and ignored the doctor for a moment, paying attention to his husband. Sherlock wouldn't look at him, but finally squeezed John's fingers. John had looked back at the doctor and nodded. He understood.

"What's next?" he asked quietly.

Surgery to remove the nods was next and that was happening in four days. He has mixed feelings about it. He has a healthy fear at the prospect, but he also appreciates that it will get the cancer out of him. He knows that the cancer cells were created by his body and that they are a part of him, but they feel like aliens. He feels like there are foreign bodies that have taken up residence in his neck, along his collar bone, and under his arm. If he thinks about it too much he can imagine them moving just under his skin, growing and trying to kill him. The surgery is going to get them out, rid him of the aliens. The chemo is going to prevent them from coming back.

He can't make himself feel grateful for the chemo though, no matter how hard he tries. He's dreading that. And then, when it's over, he can look forward to a dessert of radiation. He sighs, crossing the street and entering his block.

It's going to be a long nine months.

He climbs the steps easily, glad he still feels good. He decides as he turns the key in his lock that he's going to see if Sherlock wants to go out to dinner, maybe go for a walk or just do something besides sit at home. The feel good days are going to be a little less frequent over the next few months, he should take advantage of them while he can.

"Sher-" he starts as he walks into the living room and all thoughts of a night out vanish. Sherlock is curled up in his chair, sitting sideways, his knees drawn to his chest. John can only see grey eyes over the knees but they are red and full of panic and pain.

John drops his paperwork on the table and moves towards Sherlock. He only manages a couple of steps before Sherlock flinches and tries to push himself deeper into the chair. John stops walking, knowing that whatever this is, it's directed at him. He moves sideways instead. He pushes some papers and envelopes aside and sits on the coffee table.

"What?" John isn't entirely surprised by the scene. Sherlock doesn't process the easy, happy emotions very well, much less the bad ones.

Sherlock shakes his head, but doesn't look away. The grey eyes stay locked with the hazel ones.

"Tell me," John asks and the head starts shaking again. "Please," he adds and Sherlock continues to look at him.

After a long moment one of the arms unwinds and a long finger points at the coffee table. John is confused but looks down at the papers he moved aside. It looks like the post and he's about to ask for more information when he sees a stack of papers that are folded up, obviously having come out of one of the envelopes. John grabs them, sees his name on the first one is momentarily annoyed that Sherlock opened it and then sees what it is. He flips to the second page and the words, in antiquated lettering glare back at him.

_Last Will and Testament_

John frowns and folds it back up. He turns back to Sherlock. "It doesn't mean anything," he says. "I just realised I hadn't updated it since before I went to Afghanistan. A lot has changed since then, like I have a husband. I just, I don't know, wanted to make sure that if anything happens to me _ever_, not because of this, that you wouldn't have any problems with anything."

Sherlock doesn't move, just continues to glance between John and the papers. After another moment John sighs. "I'm going to die some-"

Sherlock unfolds in a flash and stands up. "I DO NOT WISH TO DISCUSS THIS," he says and stalks towards the kitchen. John is momentarily relieved; he doesn't wish to discuss it either. They have to though, it needs to be done and they might as well get it over with.

He takes a deep breath, feeling the exhaustion creep into the edges, and stands. He follows his husband into the kitchen.

"Sherlock," he says to his husband's back as Sherlock reaches into the pantry. "We need to talk about this. You need to know what I want to happen and I need to know what you want should you…"

"It doesn't matter," the detective says slamming to door. The sounds echoes through John's head and settles in the base of his skull.

"What?" John asks

Sherlock turns in a flash, the anger coming off of him in waves. John knows that he's picked the easiest emotion and focusing on that. "It does not matter what happens to my body. I will be dead John. Do with me whatever you want. As for you, it does not matter either."

John takes a step back, unexpectedly hurt by the words. Sherlock seems unaware as he continues. "Why do you assume that I will be the one to take care of such things? Why do you assume that I will continue to live after you have died? I will not."

"What?" John says again, hurt and confused now. "Of course you'll continue to live!" As the words come out of his mouth he realises what Sherlock is saying. He takes a step towards his husband, suddenly angry himself.

"You will _not_ kill yourself!" John yells. "No, absolutely not! You won't harm yourself if anything happens to me. No."

John can see the momentary surprise on Sherlock's face at the force of his words, but the detective isn't going to back down. "If you are correctly following the conversation you will have realised that you will be dead when the decision is to be made. You will not have a say in my actions."

"Sherlock," John says taking another step forward. "No. You can't. You can't. Please." He hears the change in his voice, feels the swell in his chest. It's an unbearable feeling, a pain he can't even begin to describe. It makes his lungs hurt as he breathes in. "Please. Promise me, Sherlock. You can't."

He sees the change in Sherlock, pain replacing anger in the grey eyes. He shakes his head slowly and John takes the remaining steps. He wraps his arms around the narrow waist and buries his face in Sherlock's neck. There is a reluctant pause before he feels Sherlock's arms around his back.

"Promise me?" John asks again and Sherlock shakes his head again.

"I can't do that," Sherlock whispers. "I won't lie to you." John gasps in a deep breath and tightens his arms. His chest is aching but he nods. He hates it, but he nods.

He takes a deep breath and savours the smell of his husband and tries to force the pain away. It isn't going to be an issue, he tries to tell himself. He isn't going to die from this, he's going to beat this with nine months of chemo and some radiation. This won't be an issue for a long, long time.

Sherlock moves and John is about to let go when he feels lips on his forehead. A second later there is a hand cupping his face, thumb rubbing across his cheek bone. He recognises the touch and isn't too surprised when his body reacts to it. Sex is both Sherlock's and his favourite way to alleviate anger, stress, and just about every other tension filled moment that they have.

And it's been almost two weeks since the passion filled morning that followed the diagnosis. Suddenly it seems like entirely too long.

John tips his head up and opens his mouth to Sherlock's tongue. It's demanding and John presses against it, fighting for control. Sherlock moans and John feels it rumble through his body. He eases his grip around Sherlock's waist, bringing his hands around to start working on the clothes. Sherlock takes a partial step back, allowing John better access.

John stops working on the belt and lets his hand slide down, cupping Sherlock through his trousers. Sherlock pushes into the contact and John can feel him growing hard in his palm. John pulls back, taking a step towards the living room, giving Sherlock a squeeze, encouraging him to follow.

"The table," Sherlock says, trying to move sideways. John frowns, feeling like he's too old to have sex on a table. Then Sherlock pushes into his hand again and the grey eyes flutter at the contact and a quiet gasp escapes his lips. The couch suddenly seems entirely too far away.

"The table," he agrees, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock again.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock follows the nurse down the bright, cold corridor. His stomach is churning, causing a tight feeling in the back of his throat. He wonders if it's the combination of disinfectant smells and continuous beeping noises or the fact that he's going to see John, post-surgery John.

Sherlock had been uncomfortable this morning as he'd watched a nurse hook the IV into his husband's arm. He'd been uncomfortable as John answered countless questions about the surgery he was about to have. The parade of doctors, surgeons, and nurses had made Sherlock anxious. There were too many people interacting with John and with too many people things could go wrong.

It was bad enough they were going to cut into John and remove parts of him, even if the parts they were removing were sick. There didn't need to be forty of them.

Nothing had gone wrong though, the oncologist had come out and told him that. She'd called him from the waiting room, shook his hand, and told him that "John did wonderfully." He'd almost collapsed at her words, relief sweeping over him. "He's in recovery now, as soon as he wakes up they'll come and get you. We've got a private room for him upstairs. I doubt we'll keep him more than a day or two." Sherlock had nodded, that was good news. The less time in hospital the better.

The nurse turned a corner and stopped outside of a door. "Before we go in, Mr. Holmes, I just wanted to let you know that he does have tubes coming out of him still. They are for…"

"The drainage," he finished for her. "Yes, I know what to expect. Take me to my husband now." She frowns, but turns and pushes the door open.

"He was awake a few minutes ago, but will probably be sleeping on and off until the drugs wear off." Sherlock bites his cheek, he knows this too. He doesn't need this woman to keep talking, he needs to see John. As they turn a corner he notices that his right hand is idly playing with the edge of his coat. He closes his eyes mentally chastising himself for being nervous. John doesn't need to see him nervous.

It is just as he makes his fingers relax that the nurse stops in front of a curtain and pushes it open. John is lying there and Sherlock's chest tightens seeing him. He takes a step forward and hears the curtain close behind him.

_He is so small_, Sherlock thinks. The bed is one of the giant medical ones and John's small frame barely covers a third of it. There is a tube coming out of his neck; Sherlock can see it protruding from under a group of dressings stretching along his jaw line. Sherlock knows that there is a matching one under John's left arm, but he's unable to see that one because of the mountain of blankets. Sherlock is happy for the blankets, it is very cold in recovery area.

Sherlock's mind flashes to a different recovery room years before and seeing John lying on a similar hospital bed. Harry had been with him then and she would have been here today if she hadn't come down with the flu. She couldn't see John if she was ill, she knew that. She also knew that Sherlock wouldn't allow it.

He still has nightmares about John's time in the hospital after the attack and he is just wondering if he'll have nightmares about this when John's eyes ease open and he looks around.

Sherlock lets out the breath he didn't know he had been holding. His lungs ache with it, straining as new oxygen is taken in.

"Hey," John says and his voice is scratchy and not entirely familiar. It isn't entirely wrong either and Sherlock moves to his husband's right side. It's obviously easier for him to look that way because there are no bandages on that side.

"Hello," Sherlock says resting his hands over John's arm through the blankets. He wants to touch him, feel his skin, and hold his hand. He won't though, the room is too cold for anymore of John to be uncovered. "How do you feel?" he asks, knowing that the question is useless. John was under anesthesia for almost three hours, he doesn't feel much at this point.

"Tired," he answers and his eyes drift closed again. "Do I get a room?" he mumbles.

"Naturally," Sherlock says. "I believe they give you the courtesy because you are a fellow medical professional, and if they did not, Mycroft would have arranged it."

"Good," he mumbles again and a slight smile his face. It's a real smile, Sherlock can see the small crinkled lines around John's eyes. Sherlock also notices the exact moment that John lapses back into sleep. He's watched John sleep thousands of times and knows the exact pattern of breathing and relaxation.

He lets the sleep deepen for a few minutes before bringing his hand up to brush across John's forehead. He moves his fingers easily along the hair line and down past his right ear. John's head moves towards the touch and a sleepy smile is on the face as Sherlock moves over the cheek bone to trace the nose and lips.

_Such a handsome face_, he thinks, _Such a handsome face and such a beautiful man_. Sherlock's chest aches again. John doesn't deserve this, he doesn't deserve this illness, this treatment. Sherlock is certain that nobody deserves this, but John in particular does not.

And he hasn't complained, not once. It's been obvious, to Sherlock especially, that John has been scared, worried, and had moments of anger. None of them have been voiced though. He's just moved from one step to the next without a negative word.

Sherlock sighs and brushes the back of his fingers over the soft cheek. John had insisted on shaving this morning, and Sherlock vaguely wished there was stubble. He loves the rough feel under his fingers.

He doesn't deserve John. He's always known that. Sherlock is argumentative, arrogant, and difficult in every way. John stays though, and Sherlock knows that he always will.

The eyes flutter open again and a hand manoeuvers out from under the blankets. He holds it up and Sherlock takes it, leaning down to kiss the knuckles.

John pulls on his hand, "Sit," he whispers, sounding a little more like himself. Sherlock shakes his head.

"No chair," he says. There isn't room for one in the small curtained off area.

John looks around, wincing slightly as he turns his neck . He frowns and pulls on Sherlock's hand again. He starts to scoot to the side and Sherlock feels a well of panic at John's moving himself. He does so easily though and makes room for Sherlock on the bed. "Here then." Sherlock sits and John moves, releasing his hand and allowing the arm to drop across a thigh. "Better," he says and a moment later he's asleep again.

Sherlock smiles and brings his phone out. He needs to text everyone concerned that John has come through the surgery perfectly.

* * *

><p>"She has a crush on you," John says laughing. Sherlock frowns, crossing his arms. He doesn't wish to speak about this anymore. He doesn't like being laughed at, even by John. A hand closes on his bicep and Sherlock feel the familiar squeeze. "I'm sorry," John says. He still has the hint of laughter in his voice but Sherlock knows his apology in sincere. "I'm not laughing at you, I swear. It's just cute."<p>

"Cute?" Sherlock spits the word out with distaste and John has to swallow another chuckle.

"She's only six, Sherlock, relax." He sighs, but relaxes his arms. And as if on cue, a bald girl in a pink dress and a face mask peaks around the corner of John's door. Sherlock resists the urge to snarl at her, but John's pleasant voice encourages her to come in.

"Hello, Cassie," he says and pats the side of his bed. The smile is apparent in her eyes as she climbs up and sits next to Sherlock.

"Hi," she says clearly speaking directly to Sherlock. A humorous smile crosses John's face again and Sherlock doesn't miss it.

"Hello," he says with complete formality. "Is it appropriate for you to be out of your room and in the adult area?" The pediatric ward starts just a few doors down but the children are allowed to wander about freely.

She rests a hand on John's chest for stability as she brings her legs up and sits on them. Sherlock glances at the contact and pushes the surge of jealousy down. John can't withhold the chuckle this time. Sherlock glares at him, but that only increases the mirth.

"Mummy said I could come say good-bye to Doctor John since he gets to go home today. And I could say good-bye to you, too." She puts her hand up and waves as if Sherlock needed the gesture to accompany the farewell.

"Adieu," Sherlock says in a dismissive tone and is not surprised when she does not immediately vacate the room. Even for a small child she has no sense of when it is appropriate to exit.

"Thank you," John says. "I'm going to miss seeing you every day."

"You too," she replies and turns her attention to John. She holds her hand up and John gives her a high five. "Beat cancer," she says.

"Beat cancer," he repeats and her eyes light up again.

Sherlock frowns as he is unable to argue with that sentiment. Even this annoying child should not be burdened with this disease.

"Cassie," comes a voice from the hallway and another head peaks around the corner. Cassie's mother, Sherlock doesn't recall her name. "Time for your radiotherapy."

The mother holds a hand out and Cassie charges off the bed. Sherlock is continually amazed by the amount of energy that she has while so ill. According to John her chances of survival are only about fifty percent. The type of leukemia she has is very, very aggressive.

Sherlock had initially felt guilt over not liking her, but has withdrawn that guilt. He does not wish her harm, but she is annoying, and she touches John.

John watches her go and Sherlock sees the sadness cross those hazel eyes. It sends a pang through his chest and he reaches a hand out placing it where Cassie's had been.

John looks up, meets his eyes, and forces a genuine smile. He covers Sherlock's hand and sighs. "I'm ready to go home."

"I'm ready for you to come home." Sherlock says. It was less than forty-eight hours, but still entirely too long. They look at each other for a long moment before John sits up.

"Oh, while you were picking up my clothes, Doctor Ryder came by." John reaches over and grabs some brochures and hands them to Sherlock. "This is apparently the information you requested from her on my chemo drugs." Sherlock takes them, feeling a hint of embarrassment about being caught researching the treatment behind John's back. He doesn't like to burden John with these questions, afraid that it will be unpleasant for him to relay the information.

There are giant red letters on the cover of the top brochure, ABVD. He already knows what each letter stands for, but was unable to find a lot of information about the treatment itself. He opens the small messenger bag he's started carrying the tablet around in and sticks the brochures inside.

"Thank you," he says, trying not to be embarrassed. If John notices he doesn't say anything.

"We also talked some more about the port." Sherlock stiffens. This has been a topic of serious discussion between the two of them, John and Doctor Ryder. It isn't that they so much disagree, but that knowing the risks of both options can't decide which is more beneficial. "I've decided to wait."

This is surprising to Sherlock and he raises an eyebrow, revealing this. John had been certain that he wanted it just a few days before. Sherlock hadn't liked the idea of John having a permanent IV line, but had not voiced an opinion. It was essential that John do what he felt was best. He was the one who had to have it.

"I know that I'd been so certain before. It's just that, well with the risk of infection and having it for nine months. It, I don't know, lost it's appeal I guess. Doctor Ryder pointed out that I can have one put in at any point during chemo if I change my mind so I'm going to hold off." Sherlock nods, secretly relieved. "If it's miserable without it then I'll get one."

"Very logical," Sherlock says, touching John's arm. The arm they would be shooting the poison into starting next week. "I'm impressed."

John chuckles at that and settles back into the pillow. Sherlock watches him for a moment and notices as the expression becomes serious.

"Are you ready for this?" John asks. Sherlock cocks his head to one side and examines his husband.

"There is nothing for me to be ready for. It is you who will be undergoing the treatments and the side effects. I am here solely to assist you with anything that you need."

"I might lose my hair," he says with genuine concern in the hazel eyes. Sherlock reaches a hand up and runs it through the soft, fine, short hair. It is secretly one of his fears, too. He likes touching John's hair. He's also read that hair lost during chemo therapy doesn't always grow back just as before. Sherlock doesn't want John to look different. He looks like John now. What if he doesn't look like John then? He certainly won't leave John or love John even a minute amount less over this though.

"Then my husband will be bald. I must insist though that if you start to lose it that we just shave it. I will not tolerate the patched, uneven look." John smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"I might be really sick. Nobody reacts the same way. Sometimes there is no sickness, sometimes it's just for a day, sometimes it's the whole time."

That prospect disturbs Sherlock as well. The prospect of John suffering is terrifying, almost debilitating. Just the thought of it causes him physical pain.

But it will be overcome, they will get through this. John will get through this, he is the strongest person Sherlock has ever known.

"Then I will take care of you, probably with Mrs. Hudson's help as my domestic skills have not been tested long term." That earns him a chuckle, a real one.

Sherlock takes his hand and places it over John's heart. He doesn't attach emotions to the organ, as all emotions come from the brain. However, he does associate John's life with his heart. The steady, solid pounding beneath his palm shows him that John is alive and here. "I am not willing to live without you, so therefore I must help you through this. The discomfort and pain that you will suffer are the only things that concern me. I have no concerns for myself as long as you survive this. It is that simple."

"It's anything but simple," John says but he isn't arguing. He's nervous and Sherlock can understand that.

"You are correct," Sherlock concedes, "However, my affection for you is certain. I will be here when this is over and you will still be my husband."

The eyes search him for a moment, unsure. But Sherlock doesn't waver. "I'm scared," John says after a moment and Sherlock nods. He doesn't like hearing it but he is prepared for it. He leans forward and places a kiss onto John's forehead.

"As am I," he says, feeling the tension leave John as he gasps in a breath. "As am I," Sherlock repeats, wanting to assure John that he is not alone.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N - The nurse in this story, Hugo, is based on a real person. He was very kind to someone close to me while they went through chemo and I wanted John to have someone like that during his process. So to Hugo, Thank You.

John sits in the small room where they told him to wait. There are inspirational pictures on three of the walls and the door is painted a bright, cheery orange. All of it is making him more nervous, not comforting him at all. He wishes Sherlock had stayed, he'd wanted to.

The chemo is estimated to take at least two hours and Sherlock doesn't have the ability to sit in a room for two hours and watch medication slowly drip into John's body. He'd be climbing the walls after twenty minutes and that would make it worse for John. They both know that.

There were files Sherlock had agreed to go over for Lestrade, so he'd sat nervously with John until they called him and then reluctantly had said good-bye. John had been sad and relieved to see him go, but the nervousness was taking over. If Sherlock was here John knows that he'd be more inclined to fake bravery.

He uncrosses and then crosses his legs again and presses his hands into his thighs. He closes his eyes and tries to slow his breathing. He starts counting and is on seventy-two when there is a knock on the door. He opens his eyes as a nurse enters the room and John is momentarily stunned by the size of him. He isn't tall as much as just giant all over. John is certain that the nurse's arms are actually bigger than his own thighs.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," he says and John notes that his accent is American, or maybe Canadian.

"Hello," John manages as the nurse sets a stack of paper work and plastic packages on the small table.

"I'm Hugo and I'll be your chemo nurse." He offers a giant hand and John shakes it. "Do you have any questions before we get started, Doctor?"

"John, please," John says. "And no, no questions."

"So," Hugo starts, and he pushes up the sleeve of the long shirt he's wearing under his scrubs. John notices a collection of tattoos, one of which contains an American flag. He's American and a sailor if John had to guess. Living with Sherlock has taught him to notice things. "I'm going to put the cannula line into your arm and then I'll hook up the IV and we'll start administering the drugs. Usually it takes about two hours, but that's when we become pros at it. You're the new guy here so it's going to take us a little longer. There's nothing unusual about that. Good so far?"

John nods. "You're American," he says unable to move past that.

Hugo laughs and nods. "Yep, I'm from Iowa. I fell in love with a British girl and ended up here." John looks at him and then back at the tattoos.

"You were in the Navy. I recognise some of those," he points at the covered forearm and Hugo holds it out.

"Yeah, I wanted to get the hell out of the cornfields and the Navy did that. I enlisted when I was eighteen and ended up as a medic on a carrier. Docked in Portsmouth, had a night of leave, met a girl and my time was up three months later." He looks down at his arm. "You recognize them? Were you R.N?"

John shakes his head, "Army," he says. "Surgeon."

Hugo smirks and John recognises it. There is always friendly animosity between the different branches and the different countries. Naturally John is lesser because he was a soldier and not a sailor. "Could be worse I guess, could have been an Airman. Or a damn Marine." John smiles at the friendly jab and realises that he's feeling less nervous. It surprises him.

"I'm sorry," John says realising none of that was any of his business.

Hugo walks to the sink to wash his hands and pull on a pair of gloves. "Don't worry about it. It's completely normal to try and distract yourself. It's a terrifying thing you're starting here. But it probably won't be as bad as you think. Chemo has come a long, long way over the years.

"Let's do this. I'll be with you the whole time. I see you have an iPod, you can listen to that, you can sleep, or we can talk. It's entirely up to you and what you find comfortable. If you want a magazine I'll grab you one between drugs. This is your first time so it won't be wonderful. It will get easier, I promise you that. We'll discuss the side effects at the end and what you need to watch out for."

Hugo moves towards him with the strap and John holds out his arm. John watches as Hugo decides on a vein and holds his breath as he feels the needle.

"Can you tell me about the rest of the tattoos?" John asks, still curious.

"Sure," Hugo says grabbing the bag with the line and opening it. "Which ones do you recognize?"

John glances at the nurse's arm and winces as he feels the line go into his arm. It doesn't hurt exactly, but he definitely feels it. "The anchor," he starts, "means you've crossed the Atlantic, right?"

Hugo smiles, pulling his hands away, the line is in and John is amazed. "Good job," he says, then fears for a moment it will sound condescending. He certainly doesn't intend it that way. Hugo laughs, though.

"Thanks, it's one of my specialties. I mastered it trying to get an IV into the arm of some squirming deckhand while the ship moved through uncertain seas at 33 knots. And don't even get me started on having to work on one of the smaller ships."

"I was in Afghanistan," John starts. "I was in surgery once and an RPG hit the front of our building. When I started working back here I remember thinking how easy it seemed in comparison."

Hugo huffs. "Ain't that the truth!" He then turns, unlocks a small refrigerator in the corner and pulls out an IV bag. He puts it on the hook and hooks it into John's arm. "It'll be cool," he says. John expects it, but still shivers as the liquid starts to enter his vein. Hugo pulls off his gloves and tosses them into the bin. "I'm off to get the meds. I'll be right back and we'll talk about all of my tattoos if you want."

John nods. He has no idea why he wants to, but he wants to.

Hugo returns in less than a minute and the mix of bags and syringes tenses the muscles up Johns spine. Hugo offers him a smile and moves to wash his hands again. He puts on gloves and holds his arm out to John.

"Did you have a question about a particular one?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock walks into the waiting area and up to the desk. "I'm here to pick up John Watson," he says. His muscles are tense and he's anxious to see his husband again. He'd barely been able to focus on the files, thinking only of John sitting in this place all by himself. He'd seriously considered bringing the files back and working on them here. He'd make arrangements for something like that next time.<p>

"He's not done yet," the receptionist says. "Would you like us to take you back?" Sherlock nods immediately and moves to the door that he'd watched John be led through earlier. He waits several seconds and the woman opens it for him.

"Right this way," she says and he follows her down the small hallway. He hears John's voice before they get to the door. It sounds conversational and easy. He's comforted by this and at the same time he feels a pang of jealousy over whoever it is John is talking to.

The woman knocks on the door and cracks it open. "Your ride is here Doctor Watson. I've brought him back if that's okay."

"Of course," John responds as Sherlock pushes past the woman. She must be an idiot if she thinks she can stand between him and John.

The room is small and he finds it distasteful right way. He holds his frown in though because John looks up and offers him a smile. It's a real smile and Sherlock's chest swells seeing it.

"This must be your husband," says an American voice and Sherlock turns to see a very large man – obviously the nurse - sitting in a chair. Sherlock frowns; he is very muscular and attractive, but clearly heterosexual.

"Yes," John says and gestures with the arm that isn't hooked up to the IV. "Hugo, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock this is my nurse Hugo Masters. He's from Iowa."

Hugo stands and holds out a hand. Sherlock notices the tattoos as he shakes it. Clearly military, he wonders if that's what the two of them have been talking about this whole time. Not that it has to be, John can generally have a conversation with anyone. Sometimes it amazes Sherlock, sometimes it annoys him. Right now he is uncertain how he feels about it.

"He's done very well," Hugo says and Sherlock realises that he's speaking to him. "Honestly, it's one of the easiest first time sessions I've ever done." Sherlock feels a moment of pride and nods.

"I am not surprised. John can be very stubborn."

Hugo laughs at that and John lets out a chuckle as well. "That doesn't surprise me in the slightest, Mr. Holmes. Not in the slightest." Hugo looks towards John and then back to Sherlock. "He's almost done. I'm going to go get the instructions and the medication. John said that you are keeping track of all of that for him."

"Yes, I have all of the information organised and categorised."

"I'll be right back then."

Sherlock looks down at John who leans his head back and smiles again.

"How are you feeling?" he probes even though John is clearly feeling well.

"Not bad. The tube was uncomfortable at first and the medications are cold, but much easier than I anticipated."

He opens his mouth to speak but Hugo returns. He has a bottle of pills and a set of printed instructions. He hands them to Sherlock and moves to wash his hands.

"Make sure to take the anti-nausea meds as directed. They're great at preventing it but not as effective at stopping it. If they don't work, call your doctor, there are other ones that we can try. Be sure you drink plenty of water, even if you don't feel like you can. You'll feel better when hydrated and it also helps push the toxins out. Watch the sugar intake, that will help too. Cancer loves sugar. Anything unusual, anything that feels off or wrong, call your doctor. You might have a slight fever this afternoon as you process the meds, if you have one after today, call the doctor. If you just feel bad, call the doctor." He pulls on gloves and begins to disconnect John from the IV line. "That's the official advice, I have some other tips for you if you'd like to hear them."

Sherlock nods as John says, "Please."

Hugo crosses his arms and shifts his weight. "When you feel well enough to eat, be sure to eat high calorie foods, especially before your trips here. It will make this easier. Drink a lot of water before you come here and seriously, as I said before, stay hydrated. You're going to be tired, a lot. However, in most cases the 'chemo fatique' won't set in until about five days after. Don't be surprised if you can barely function on those days. Don't push it, just sleep. Your body is balancing out a lot of chemicals. Any questions, call your doctor. If you can't get her call me. The number of our office is on there and my card has my cell number on it. Call me, either of you, anytime. I'm married to doctor, calls at two am don't bother either of us." He pauses for a moment and looks between them. "Also, there might be nightmares. And if you're like me and already have nightmares from the war, watch out for more. They might even be worse. It isn't an official side effect, but one I hear about a lot."

Sherlock notices John swallow hard but this doesn't concern Sherlock. Nightmares can be dealt with.

"The rest of it's in there," Hugo continues, pointing at the paperwork. "And seriously, please don't hesitate to call."

John nods and moves to stand, Sherlock is digging through the papers verifying what Hugo has said about the phone numbers. He stops when he sees John wobble on his feet and almost lets the papers fall to the floor. Hugo is there though, with a sure hand on John's upper arm. Sherlock tucks the papers under his arm quickly and John moves to latch on to him.

It just takes a moment for John to completely get his bearings and Hugo holds the door open for them.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N – I owe a debt of gratitude to ScopesMonkey on this chapter. She made it infinitely better and is probably the only reason the whole story didn't get scrapped right here. Thank you!

* * *

><p>Sherlock, in his mostly-asleep state, feels the bed shift and the quiet noise as John leaves the bedroom. He shifts slightly towards John's pillow, seeking the scent of his husband in his absence. He reaches a hand out into the empty space and settles deeper into the mattress.<p>

A part of his brain searches for the comfort of dreams but the bliss of deep sleep eludes him. There is a growing recognition that something was wrong with the way John left the bedroom. The fact that he can't immediately determine why forces him to allocate a slightly larger portion of his brain to the problem. This instantly makes him realise that John should be back by now. He's been gone too long.

It was the steps, his mind determines - the steps had been too fast. He opens his eyes and climbs out of the bed. John closed the bedroom door as he left and it isn't until Sherlock opens it that he hears him. Any thoughts of sleep are completely abandoned.

The sound of John getting violently ill hits his ears as he opens the bathroom door. John hadn't turned the light on but Sherlock is able to make out his husband's figure curled around the toilet. John's fingers curl into the cold porcelain as his body is wracked with the force of the heave.

The pills were supposed to prevent this. He wasn't supposed to become ill. Sherlock runs over the instructions in his head, something had to have been missed. _He_ had to have missed something. He is certain that he did not.

He crouches down, resting a hand between John's shoulder blades, and is hit with the smell. It makes his stomach churn and he opens his mouth to gasp in a breath.

"John," he says and the body beneath his hand seizes as he gets sick again.

He hadn't forgotten a dose, he is certain. "The medication…"

"Isn't working," John mumbles as he gasps in a breath and leans his head against his outstretched arm. Sherlock can't make out the details of John's face, he can't read the thoughts or the emotions and that makes him uncomfortable. He'll leave the light off though, for John's sake.

"I am certain that we followed the directions correctly." Sherlock traces his hand down John's back. The t-shirt is cool but damp, clinging to John's back.

"We did," John says and Sherlock a faint glint reflect off John's eyes as he opens them. Sherlock desperately wishes he could see more clearly. "I just…" he starts to cough and lifts his head prepares to get sick again, but does not. After a few steadying breaths he rests his head back down. "They don't always work," John whispers. "I'll have to try a different one."

"I'll call her now," Sherlock says, moving to stand. He has no idea what time it is but it doesn't matter. John is ill. Sherlock is shifting his weight back to his heels when John's hand closes around his wrist.

"It's three in the morning, Sherlock, you aren't going to get her. And like Hugo said -"

"Then I will call him," Sherlock says. "He said we should call him at any time."

"Sherlock," John says with some force then starts to cough again. Sherlock watches in horror as dry heaves wrack his husband's body. They last only a moment and John slumps again, weak and drained. He squeezes Sherlock's wrist. "They won't stop it once it starts."

"John," he says pulling on his wrist. "You are ill."

John releases his wrist as the eyes snap open again. Sherlock can feel their piercing glare. "I have _cancer_," he snaps and Sherlock pulls back as the words hit him, as _that_ word hits him.

John's shakes as he gets sick again, managing some liquid this time. Sherlock is certain by the small quantity that it is just stomach acid. "Oh god," John whispers as he rests his head back down.

_Cancer -_ the word flashes across Sherlock's brain like one of those stupid signs in Piccadilly Circus. He hates cancer. He hates it.

John blindly reaches up to flush but doesn't get up. Sherlock realises with a pang of horror that it isn't over. He stands and heads out of the bathroom, not bothering to be quiet on the stairs.

There is still ginger ale in the refrigerator from when John just had the flu. Sherlock grabs a can and a small glass. He also grabs the box of dinner crackers John sometimes eats with cheese and heads back up the stairs.

"Light," he says, giving it a moment before he flips the switch. John's eyes scrunch against the brightness but he clearly already had them closed. Sherlock blinks as his knees hit the floor again. He takes a moment to examine John. There are dark circles under his very red eyes and his face has a slight greenish tint. He looks exhausted. Sherlock reaches a hand up to comb through his short, soft hair.

"How long?" he asks and John shakes his head.

"Don't know, all night. Maybe longer. It varies, I've never done chemo before, I don't know." Sherlock nods, tracing his thumb over John's cheek bone. He watches the hazel eyes drift closed at the touch. And in a flash John swats his hand away and his body starts to spasm.

Sherlock feels useless, his whole body aches as he watches John miserable and in pain. He rests his hand on the back of John's neck and he notes that it is warm - from the exertion, not a fever. He uses his other hand to open the ginger ale can and pour a little into the glass.

John relaxes again and gets his breathing back to normal. Sherlock counts the breaths in his head and holds up the glass.

"Drink," he says.

John shakes his head but Sherlock presses it to his lips and John swallows several small sips.

"Good," he says and sets it down. "Do you want to try a cracker now?"

John shakes his head and mumbles: "Not yet." Sherlock nods and sets the box aside for later. He stands again and grabs two flannels out of the linen closet then runs both of them under cool water. He can feel John's eyes on him the whole time.

He sits back down and puts one of the flannels into John's hand. Sherlock takes the other one and sets it across John's neck. John makes a small satisfied noise as the cool cloth touches his warm skin. Sherlock rubs his fingers into the material there, massaging gently.

"You can go back to bed," John says letting his eyes drift closed again.

"No," Sherlock says quietly but without room for debate. The idea of leaving the bathroom is the most preposterous thing he's ever heard. John's hazel eyes open again and meet his grey ones. Sherlock tries not to let the distress he feels over his husband's appearance show on his face. He doubts he is being very successful.

"Thank you," John whispers as his eyes close again.

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond when John sits up and is sick again.

* * *

><p>Sherlock opens his eyes, groaning softly. His back aches and his butt is sore. He is not at all surprised that he fell asleep in the bathroom. The events of the last few hours are very clear in his mind and he is certain that they always will be. There will be no way to delete this.<p>

He's leaning against the wall across from the toilet. John had been cold for a while and Sherlock had wrapped himself around the doctor from behind. When John had gotten sick the detective felt every convulsion as his body rejected the ginger ale, then the crackers, then nothing. Every muscle along John's back had rippled against his chest and he'd felt helpless. He could not make this go away. He couldn't make it easier.

John is leaning against him now, with his head resting under Sherlock's chin. The slow steady breaths and quiet snore are a relief. John desperately needs sleep.

Every muscle in Sherlock's body wants him to stand, stretch and get off the floor. He ignores the discomfort and brings a hand up to cup John's forehead. The skin is back to normal sleep temperature now.

The bathroom smells of vomit and Sherlock turns his head slightly and tries to smell John instead. He can't get the angle right and when John stirs he immediately stops trying. He can breathe through his mouth until his husband wakes up. John sleeping is the most important thing.

He lets his fingers trail through John's hair, silently hoping again that he doesn't lose it. Then he amends that wish. He'll happily have John be bald if he never has to be sick like this again.

He lets his arm drop and brings the other one up to lightly wrap them around John's body. John settles deeper into Sherlock's chest, turning his face slightly so that Sherlock can feel warm breath on his collar bone through the shirt.

Sherlock leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, forcing the discomfort out of his mind. He's slept in worse situations than this. In alleys, slumped on the kitchen table, alone without John. He is determined they will not sleep like this again, however. He is never going to let John be this sick. He is going to find an anti-nauseant that works so that John can be spared this. From now on, every night until the chemo is done, they will sleep in their bed, not on the cold bathroom floor.


	9. Chapter 9

He could see through the window. Sherlock was in the other building. The man had a gun, but he'd put it down. He'd put it down but Sherlock wasn't leaving.

"Sherlock!" John screamed. "Sherlock!"

He couldn't get out and into that building fast enough. It'd be too late. Why wasn't Sherlock leaving? The killer was disarmed.

"Sherlock!"

He saw his husband hold one hand up in the air, studying something. With a sweep of horror John realised what it was. He reached forward and banged on the window. "No, Sherlock, NO!"

Cracks spread across the glass as he pounded on it and blood started to drip down from the side of his hands.

"NO, Sherlock it's a trap!" he screamed as loud as he could. His throat burned as he forced the words out.

Sherlock didn't turn. He continued to study the pill in his hand. He was going to take it. He was going to take it and he was going to die.

John fumbled for his gun. He had to shoot the cabbie again, he had to kill him again. He had to make sure he stayed dead. He brought it out, flipped the safety off and pulled the slide. He aimed for the cabbie's head. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened. He pulled again. Nothing.

"Sherlock!" he screamed again, pulling on the slide to eject the bullet. Nothing. He turned the gun over and saw the empty hole where the magazine should be.

"Where are the bullets?" he screamed looking wildly around the empty room. He slapped the pockets of his jackets and his jeans. Nothing. He couldn't find the damn bullets. He looked back out the window, trying to see through the spreading cracks. Sherlock was putting the pill in his mouth.

John started to run.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson glances at her watch. She wants to get to the market before it gets dark but it doesn't look like she's going to. Sherlock still isn't home yet and she'd promised she'd stay close by in case John needed anything.<p>

It really is a shame that poor John is so sick. So many perfectly horrible people live long lives with no problems at all and that poor boy has already suffered through so much.

She sighs and tries to find something else on the telly.

Life really is unfair.

She stops on a film with Cary Grant and sits back in her chair. She has some knitting she could be doing but doesn't feel like it.

She should call Sherlock and make him pick up the things she needs. Usually he wouldn't consider it, but if she tells him John would have done it for her she knows that he'll listen. She's reaching for the phone when she hears the crash from above her head.

It surprises her and she looks up as if the fixture on the ceiling might provide some answers.

"Sherlock!" John's muffled voice carries down the stairs and Mrs. Hudson is alarmed - he has to be screaming for her to hear him from up there. She is heading towards her door when she hears the door upstairs open and feet thundering on the stairs. "Sherlock!" he yells again and she can hear him clearly now.

She opens her door just as he reaches the bottom step. He's looking back and forth, not seeing anything, and heads to the door of the basement flat.

"John," she says as he pulls on the handle of the flat. "He's at the chemist, dear. What's wrong?"

His head snaps around and she takes a step back. He is sheet white, his hazel eyes bright. He looks terrified, absolutely terrified.

"Where is he?" John asks, the scream suddenly replaced by a panicked whimper. "I don't know where he is. I can't find him. I'm too late."

She doesn't understand, but takes step towards him, opening her arms to him. "I'm too late," he says again as he wraps his arms around her waist and starts to sob into her shoulder.

She doesn't hug John often but immediately notices the difference in his body. He has lost quite a bit of weight. It isn't too surprising given how sick he's been the last few days, but she still doesn't like it. She covers his head with one of her hands. "It's okay, dear, he's just at the chemist getting your new anti-nausea medication for when you have chemo again, remember?"

He shakes his head and lets out a sobbing wail. "He's dead," John says, "I was too late."

"Too late for what? Why do you think something has happened to him?" She says a quick prayer that he's wrong and holds him tighter.

"I saw it," he says gasping in a wet breath. "I saw it and I couldn't stop it. I forgot the bullets. It's my fault."

"John, dear," she says, "I don't-" She just notes the sound of the key in the door behind her when John pushes away from her, almost bowling her over as the door opens and Sherlock steps in. There is a look of shock on Sherlock's face as the smaller body collides against him. The force pushes them backwards and there is a thump as Sherlock's side hits the door jam.

For a moment it appears the John is climbing Sherlock. She hears a crash and looks down to see that Sherlock has dropped a bag onto the floor.

"John?" he manages, leaving his key in the door and wrapping his arms around the smaller man.

"I'm so sorry," John mumbles into Sherlock's shoulder. "I was too late. I was too late and you took the pill. He made you take the pill."

Sherlock looks at Mrs. Hudson and she gives her head a little shake. She really has no idea. He continues to look confused for a moment before realisation crosses his features.

"John," he says tightening around his husband. "I'm right here. I didn't take the pill. You weren't too late. Don't you feel me?"

She sees John nod, but she also hears the tears. He's still sobbing.

"I'm right here," Sherlock whispers and she starts to move towards her door. This is obviously a private moment and John is a private person. He'll be embarrassed if she sees too much and she'd hate for him to feel bad.

She sits back in her chair and a few moments later hears the front door close. Hopefully that means that Sherlock has at least calmed the doctor enough to disentangle himself.

She shakes her head as she hears footsteps on the stairs.

It really is a shame that it is John having to suffer through this.

* * *

><p>John's heart is pounding with such force that Sherlock can feel it against his own ribs. Sherlock is lying on his back on the sofa and John is on top of him. He'd practically had to carry John up the stairs. He'd tried to push John off of him once they were in the welcome warmth of their own flat. Sherlock wanted to see his face, see what was going on, but John had whimpered against him and tightened his grip around the detective's neck. Sherlock hadn't pressed him, instead lying down on the couch and bringing John with him.<p>

"I'm so sorry," John whispers again and Sherlock shakes his head.

"I am perfectly fine, John. I am right here. It appears that you had a very bad nightmare."

John nods against him but lets out another sobbing gasp. "I forgot the bullets," he repeats again. "You needed me and I wasn't there. I'm so sorry."

"John," Sherlock says again, putting some force behind his words. He regrets it immediately. John's body shakes with the impact of it. "John," he repeats, more softly. "Look at me. Please." John doesn't move. Sherlock turns his head bringing his lips close to his husband's ears, lowering his voice even more.

"You were there, John. You are always there. I am fine. Look at me, please. I am fine. You had a nightmare. Listen to me. I'm right here."

There is another gasping breath and before John can exhale Sherlock says: "Hold it." John's chest stutters but he does as commanded. Sherlock settles a hand between John's shoulder blades and does a quick count in his head. "Let it out."

Sherlock repeats his commands until the heartbeat levels out against him. It's still too fast, but the rhythm is more regular and less alarming.

"I'm right here," Sherlock repeats and John nods against him.

"I could feel it," John says. "It was so - I could feel it. You were gone and I knew it."

Sherlock tightens his hold and places a kiss against John's ear. "It was only a dream."

John takes a deep breath and the muscles begin to relax. "I'm sorry," he whispers. Sherlock knows that he is no longer apologising because of the failure in the dream, but because of the scene he has caused.

"This perpetual apologising is getting tiresome, John." Sherlock says with mock annoyance. John doesn't laugh or even chuckle but the tension is relieved. John's arms release Sherlock's neck and he moves to sit up.

His cheeks are still wet from the tears. And Sherlock brings a hand up and cup John's jaw, using a thumb to wipe some the moisture away. The remnants of the terror are still visible in the hazel eyes, but John is fighting to gain control.

Sherlock feels himself relax as he is able to completely look John over. He tries not to let his own fear show on his face, so he offers John what he hopes is a genuine smile. He certainly doesn't feel it.

"I'm being ridiculous," John says, looking away, embarrassed. Sherlock moves his hand under John's chin, tipping his head up until their eyes meet again.

"It was a nightmare. It is a side effect of the chemo therapy. There is no need to feel shame."

John gives a slight nod and lies back down. He settles his head on Sherlock's chest and tightens his fingers into Sherlock's shirt.

"It was so real," he says. "I just, I knew that you were dead. I just knew. It was like, it was like I was waking up for the first time after, the first morning after you were gone. I just, I knew it and then I couldn't find you."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N – Thanks to ScopesMonkey who had to suffer through all of my mistakes, not just once, but twice with this chapter. I wrote this because there needed to be a small angst reprieve for the boys.

Warnings – Very, very dirty bits follow. Rated M.

* * *

><p>Sherlock enters the flat quietly, expecting John to still be asleep. There has been no vomiting with the second round of chemo but John has been generally exhausted since his treatment six days ago. He hasn't eaten much more than toast, but at least is keeping it down. Sherlock is displeased with the weight loss but both Dr. Ryder and Hugo have insisted that it is not unusual. And it does not concern John.<p>

John, however, is not asleep. "Hello," comes a voice from the kitchen and Sherlock feels a smile cross his face. John sounds good and if he's in the kitchen it means he is eating. The detective takes his coat off and moves to stand in the doorway. John is cooking - and not the toast or oatmeal that have become the staples of his diet. He is frying eggs and sausage and has a large glass of orange juice sitting on the counter. He scoops two of the sausages onto his plate and sets the pan back on the stove.

"Hungry, I see," Sherlock says. He takes a few steps closing the distance between him and his husband.

"Yes," John replies, looking back just as Sherlock drapes an arm over his shoulder. He kisses John's temple, distracting the doctor while he steals the fork and pokes a sausage.

"Hey, I'm eating those."

"You can make more," Sherlock says, happy to see a smirk cross John's face. Sherlock has become very thankful for the playful moments. John reaches out trying to grab the fork, but Sherlock holds it out of reach. John reaches again and Sherlock takes another step backwards, grinning as he takes a bite of the sausage. It's too hot though and John laughs as Sherlock struggles not to spit it out.

"You can keep that one," John concedes with a chuckle. He reaches out and pats Sherlock's chest gently before grabbing his food and moving to the table. Sherlock moved all of his experiments to the spare bedroom and has largely ignored them since John has been ill. His time at home has been spent focussed almost exclusively on John. John needs him the most during the very bad days, especially when there are nightmares. And the good days, while they have been few, are almost normal. Sherlock doesn't want to leave during those days; he wants to enjoy his husband as he is supposed to be and as he will be again.

He takes the seat next to John, feeling happiness swell inside of him at the sight of John eating. Sherlock reaches a hand up and brushes his fingers through the soft hair as John takes a bite of the eggs. The doctor's eyes close and Sherlock knows that he is enjoying the food. John is too thin but Sherlock pushes the concern away. This is their life for the next eight months, at least. Weight can be gained later.

Right now, Sherlock will just be happy that John is eating.

"Who done it?" John asks after a moment, and Sherlock pauses, confused. John laughs. "The case you just helped Lestrade wrap up? You've only been home five minutes, not even you can delete it that fast."

"Ah," Sherlock frowns; he had pushed it out of his mind. John is good today. "The security guard," he replies. "Boring. Would you like to go out? The park perhaps or to one of those horrible films you always want to see."

John sets the fork down and pushes the plate away, Sherlock glances at it, noting that he ate all but two bites of it. John crosses his arms and sets them on the table. He offers Sherlock a very specific smile and Sherlock is amazed as it shoots right to his groin.

He enjoys the feeling for exactly seven seconds, before his muscles tighten and the regret takes over. They can't, he knows better.

"I had another idea," John says. John leans towards Sherlock, who manages to not pull away as lips press against his. The soft sensation does nothing to curb the desire. Sherlock's chest tightens with nerves.

Sherlock wonders what John sees on his face as he pulls out of the kiss. "We can't," Sherlock stammers. "I mean, it's been, you are, we can't. It's -"

John smiles reaching a hand out and tracing his index finger up Sherlock's thigh. "We can, it'll probably be slow and I'll probably sleep for nine hours after, but I would like to try. I miss it, I miss you."

"I'm right here," Sherlock manages, finding it difficult to breathe. He wants to stand up and leave the room. He doesn't like the mix of emotions: the fear, the nerves, the overwhelming want. It isn't supposed to be like this with John, it's easy with John, it always has been. They should wait. Nine months is a ridiculously long time, but they have to. "You're sick," Sherlock says.

John frowns then and straightens in his chair. "If you don't want, I mean I know that I -"

Embarrassment. Sherlock sees embarrassment and rejection. His chest hurts as he stands. "No," he says. "No, John." Sherlock brings his hands up and cups John's face. "No, it's not that. I want to, God do I want to. I just, can you?"

John searches him, the doubt still apparent in those hazel eyes. Sherlock gives him another kiss, pushing away the other emotions and letting the desire bubble to the surface, the overwhelming, all-encompassing desire that only John Watson can awaken in him. He pulls back again and meets John's eyes. He wants John to see the emotion; he wants John to know that he'll never not want him. He wants him so bad that he's afraid if they start that he won't be able to stop.

John is so thin and weak; Sherlock would never forgive himself if he hurt him.

John reaches a hand out and settles it on Sherlock's hip. The unusually bony fingers send shivers up Sherlock's spine. He lets out a quiet gasp as he leans forward again. Their lips meet and begin to move easily against each other.

There is none of the usual desperate haste; the kiss is lazy and soft. They brush against each other, tongues forgoing the usual fight for dominance to dart out, taste and retreat. John turns in his chair and Sherlock feels a hand settle on his other hip. His fingers tighten and Sherlock can feel the heat even through his shirt. He angles his head slightly and John's tongue dips inside, the tip reaching up to dance across his palate. Sherlock moans and John's body respond to the sound.

John doesn't break contact as he pushes Sherlock back so that he can stand. The heat radiates off of the doctor as their chests meet. Sherlock loses all focus as John's tongue retreats and he pushes his forward, the taste of his husband flooding through him. It's delightful and he feels every atom in his body respond.

Sherlock pulls back and presses his forehead against John's, gasping for breath. Sherlock moves his hands up until his fingers are interlocked against the back of John's neck, feeling slight moisture from the unusual exertion. As Sherlock's palms settle along the side of John's neck, he instantly feels the scar, the new scar, the cancer scar. He pushes down on a cringe - not at John or the scar but at what was there, just beneath the skin just a few weeks ago. The small murderous cells that tried to steal his husband.

He is certain that he will never forget the way that the swollen nodes felt before the surgery. He never wants to forget the way that it felt to brush his fingers over those lumps, those poisonous cells. He'd touched them knowing they were going to come out, knowing that they were going to lose. They had to lose because he couldn't lose John. He couldn't lose everything.

He wasn't going to, this weak and thin man wasn't going anywhere. Those horrible treatments were going to ensure that.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock whispers in the close space.

John nods against his forehead, moving his hand from Sherlock's hips to wrap his arms around his waist. Their bodies press tightly together and the feeling of John stirring against his thigh causes the familiar warmth to settle in Sherlock's stomach. "God yes," the doctor whispers back.

They pull apart and John holds a hand out to Sherlock and they move quickly up the stairs. It is awkward as they close the door behind them; it's been a long time. But John takes a step forward and Sherlock leans down to meet him.

The kisses are soft again, and neither of them challenges it. Sherlock decides to let John set the pace as he is the only one who knows what he can handle. Sherlock lets himself get lost in the sensations, focussing on every gentle brush of John's lips as they move down to his chin. He lets his head fall back as the lips move under his jaw. As John starts to work on his buttons, Sherlock settles his fingers on John's lower back, pressing against the soft cotton there.

"Oh," escapes Sherlock as John gently drags his teeth over the Adam's apple. The sound brings a smile from John that Sherlock can feel against his skin. His shirt is pulled out of his trousers easily and warm hands flatten against Sherlock's abs. Fingers trace upwards slowly, bringing with them quiet gasps. The muscles twitch as ticklish spots are brushed and goose bumps break out over pale skin.

John chuckles as his kisses move to the hollow of Sherlock's throat. The fingers continue up and over collar bones, brushing shoulders as they push the shirt to the floor. Sherlock moans as they leave hot trails across his upper arms and John pulls back.

Their eyes meet and after a moment Sherlock grabs the bottom of John's shirt. He brushes the back of his fingers across the doctor's sides as he pushes the shirt up and over John's head. He tosses the t-shirt aside and examines his husband. The ribs are prominent and unfamiliar. Sherlock drags his hands down, noticing that the skin that is usually so dark against his no longer appears that way. The pink nipples stand out appearing much darker than usual. Sherlock happily brings his thumbs up to trace over the nubs. John wobbles and his eyes drift close. He pushes his chest forward into the contact and a groan escapes him. Sherlock leans forward, planting a kiss just below John's ear.

"Oh god," John says pushing his body into Sherlock's. Fingers settle on Sherlock's belt and start to work at getting it off. Sherlock moves his hands down, pushing on the waist band of John's sweat pants and the boxers follow them to the floor. John steps back kicking them away. Sherlock smiles, pushing John's fingers away and taking over on his own trousers. A moment later he is dropping them and his boxers to the floor, not missing the possessive look that crosses John's face. He feels his cock swell in response, blood diverting as he gets harder with every breath.

Their eyes lock again and John smiles at him.

"Lie down." Sherlock complies, smiling as he settles on his back. He expects John to follow him, expects the familiar, now lighter, weight on his chest. Instead, John climbs onto the bed and sits at Sherlock's feet. He places his fingers behind Sherlock's right ankle and brings his foot up.

The detective lets out a quiet moan as thumbs dig into the ball of his foot. His eyes close and he pushes his head back into the pillow. The foot massages were a regular part of their routine before the cancer, and Sherlock hadn't realised they were gone. Evidently John had.

Every muscle in Sherlock's leg tightens as John's tongue suddenly replaces his fingers. He shudders, curling his toes as the tongue traces underneath them, forcing into the spaces between them. John pulls back and digs his thumbs into the arch. Sherlock relaxes again; with just the thumbs the feelings aren't exactly sensual. A quiet sigh escapes Sherlock as John rests his right foot back gently on the bed and moves to other one. Sherlock closes his eyes enjoying the massage and hoping that he doesn't fall asleep.

"Mmmm," he hums as the second foot is gently placed back on the bed. He opens his eyes and meets hazel ones filled with desire. The warmth returns and he lifts his arm, reaching out for his husband. John doesn't move, instead takes Sherlock's hand and places a kiss against the knuckles.

John pulls his hand back and settles his fingers on both ankles. He brushes upwards, the touch so light Sherlock is certain that fingers are not touching skin. It feels as if they are just catching the coarse hairs as they move up and over his knees. Goose bumps sprout up all over his legs and his muscles tense, wanting to stretch. John leans forward as the gentle touch continues across his thighs. Sherlock reaches down to clasp on one of John's wrists but stopping the fingers doesn't stop the sensation as it continues to sweep across his thighs into his groin and a shudder courses through Sherlock's body.

"Ungh," he moans, arching up, and his cock begins to throb as it grows again.

John's free hand starts moving again, up and over his hip bone. The muscles in Sherlock's abdomen flutter as the gentle touch moves up and over a tender nipple. "John," Sherlock whispers pushing his chest up, desperate to increase the contact. John moves his hand back down, resting it on a hip.

"Yes?" John says, twisting the wrist that is still in Sherlock's grasp and managing to free it. Sherlock reaches above his head, winding his fingers into the headboard. He sighs as John moves over the other nipple and down the other side. "Sometimes it's nice to go slow," John says and Sherlock just nods.

Eyes close as John lowers his head, but when his cock isn't surrounded by the glorious warmth of John's mouth it shudders in protest. John places a kiss into the dark curls, brushing his teeth into the tender skin. "Not yet," John whispers and Sherlock wonders if the words are directed to him or to the cock twitching against John's cheek.

John's head moves up, placing a kiss just below Sherlock's navel. He sucks at the skin curling his fingers around Sherlock's hips as they push up into the contact. Sherlock is certain he'll bruise. The thought of John's mark against his pale skin shivers up his spine. He groans tightening his grip into the cold metal above his head.

John relaxes his lips and presses his tongue into the now tender spot. The hands abandon the hips and move downward through the dark curls. Index fingers and thumbs each grab a sack and Sherlock's breath catches. There is an aching throb as the first drops ease out of him.

"Oh, Jesus," Sherlock whispers out as John's thumbs dig into the sacks, a gentle imitation of the massage given to Sherlock's feet. Sherlock's head presses back into the pillow as the thumbs push the sacks up and he arches as warm breath hits him there. Sherlock brings his knees up and lets them fall to the side, opening himself further.

John takes advantage, sucking one of the sacks into his mouth. The tongue is rough as it ripples against the tender skin.

"God, John, yesssss," A hand is freed from the headboard and grasps John's hair. Fingers try to knot through it, securing a grip, but it is too soft, too short, and slips through. Sherlock lets out a grunt of frustration that morphs into a cry of pleasure as the attention moves to the other sack. He arches painfully as he grasps for a shoulder and squeezes. John chuckles and the sound vibrates up Sherlock's balls and through his cock. It stops under his pelvis and he thrusts, certain that he's coming from this. Coming simply from John lazily sucking on his balls.

"NO," he yelps as John releases him. He collapses back to the mattress amazed that he is still hard and still wanting. Oh so desperately wanting.

"John," he says again, encouraging his husband to move on.

"Still right here," John says as an index finger press into the hard member. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks down his body. John's head is resting on one of his thighs, allowing him to watch as his thumb comes up and the two fingers begin to push on the smooth foreskin. They push it up and over the swollen purple head. Sherlock watches his hips involuntarily thrust into the touch as John turns, placing a kiss into the thigh.

The index finger traces over the head, catching the liquid leaking out and gently spreading it. The finger begins tracing the veins, sweeping over the head before moving to another. The touch alone is not enough, but Sherlock is throbbing, aching to come. He's certain that he's harder than he's ever been before. It almost hurts. Every muscle below his rib cage is constricting then releasing at random, his whole body is tense, anticipating.

"John," he pleads. He squeezes the shoulder before moving his hand up to run fingers through the soft hair. "Please?" he asks. He almost cringes, hearing the whine in his voice. He can hear the ache, the want, and is certain John can hear it as well.

John moves his hand away and presses his chin into Sherlock's hip. The hazel eyes lock with the grey ones. "Please?" Sherlock repeats bringing a soft smile to John's face. Sherlock's heart swells with it, he loves that smile.

"Fine." The exasperation is feigned and they both know it. A kiss is placed into the hip as John starts to move. The expected action is for John to straddle him and reach into the bedside table for the lubricant. Sherlock knows he will choose the passion fruit one and his nostrils flare at the memory of the sweet scent. But John settles on his knees next to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock watches, confused, and reaches over to touch John's thigh. John leans over and gently brushes his lips against Sherlock's. Their tongues taste again, quickly, and John pulls up before it deepens. Sherlock sees the mischievous grin a second before John lifts his leg, shifting his weight. It isn't until John is facing backwards, straddling his chest that Sherlock comprehends.

"Oh God, yes," he says, resting his head back just as a warm exhalation hits his cock. The new position opens John up completely and the scent overwhelms him. He groans as a hand closes around him, moving slowly up and down. It's followed, a moment later, by a fire hot mouth.

"Fuck." He savours the sensation as rough tongue laps at him. He grabs John's thighs and pulls. He wants to taste, now. "Move back," he snaps and pulls again. John chuckles and it vibrates up him. Sherlock moans, his head suddenly too heavy to hold up.

John's moves backwards and his balls bounce against Sherlock's chin. Sherlock groans, bringing and index finger to his mouth and sucking on it. He shoves his arms between John's legs and wraps around his thighs. John is much smaller than the previous times they've done this and Sherlock reaches easily. He can feel John's pelvis pushing against his forearms, but he pushes the thought away. He uses his fingers to spread John's cheeks and rubs the wet index finger along the sensitive hole. John moans around him, as the muscles start to contract at the touch. Sherlock times it, finger pushing into John just as the dangling sack is sucked into his mouth. John bucks, stretching the sack, his mouth loosening around Sherlock as he gasps.

Sherlock pushes deeper, John's muscles alternating between acceptance and protest. When the finger curls against the sensitive prostate, John thrust down, pushing into Sherlock's chin. Sherlock grins as the first warm drops hit his chest.

John's hand tightens again, but the up and down movement stutters. "Sherlock," is puffed against Sherlock's hip. There is a hard suck on the sack and Sherlock curls the finger again. The thighs around him start to shake. "Oh, shit, that, yes, that." Another press against the prostate brings more hot liquid to his chest. He wants to taste John, it's been weeks, he desperately wants to taste. Sherlock contemplates a moment, knowing that to taste he might have to relinquish the control he is thoroughly enjoying. He immediately determines that it is a worthy sacrifice.

Sherlock allows the sack to slip from between his lips as he pulls up on the hips, pressing himself lower in the same movement.

"I want to taste you," Sherlock says, as his finger slips out of John. There is a grunt at the loss of penetration. John releases Sherlock, fingers desperately grabbing at a pale thigh Sherlock darts his tongue out, capturing the dripping liquid on the tip of his tongue.

It isn't enough, he wants so much more. He presses his tongue against the tender head, lapping at the sweet tip. John is so wide, the dark head so prominent and appealing. Sherlock wants to be fucked, hard. But he wants to taste more.

It is different, the taste, but not unfamiliar. The cock throbs against his tongue, and John thrust towards the contact. It isn't enough, it still isn't enough. Sherlock brings his knees up, plants his feet, and lifts is body. In one swift movement they are on their sides and Sherlock is pushing John onto his back.

"Sherlock!" John exclaims at the sudden change, arms flailing as he tries to stabilise. The movements stop and a groan escapes as Sherlock takes all of him. The throat opens as his nose buries itself into John's balls. The smell hits him again, so strong, and Sherlock sucks, pulling up and listening as John starts to wail. The head is released with an audible pop.

Sherlock is moving to repeat the action when he is unexpectedly penetrated. He thrusts forward, almost hitting the headboard, and then back against the finger. "Oh, yes," he hisses as the finger curls inside of him. The feeling swells through his pelvis and throbs up his cock. More liquid leaks out of him. The height difference is not as much of a hindrance with Sherlock on top and John lifts his head, easily pressing his tongue against the aching member.

Sherlock's hand comes up, wrapping around John, forcing his foreskin up and then back down. The other hand cups the ball sack, pushing it up. Sherlock's mouth closes around the head and John's hips begin thrusting a steady rhythm.

A second devious finger pushes Sherlock just as John tilts his head. Sherlock's hips hitch forward, meeting with no resistance, and he hits the back of John's throat. He pulls back and slams forward again, exploding. Sherlock keens out John's name as his fist tightens, forcibly moving the foreskin. John's outcry is muffled as he thrusts in the too tight grip, following Sherlock over the edge.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock keeps the torch focussed on the ground at Lestrade's feet.

"The markings are just up here. We shut down the Circle and District Lines between these two stops. It wouldn't have been easy for him to get down here without getting hurt."

"No, but the lines are shut down for several hours during the night and early morning, correct? Is there footage of anyone left in the stations after the last train?" Sherlock asks, stepping over the body of a dead rat.

"We're pulling the CCTV footage now, but we don't expect to find anything. He's managed to avoid all cameras up to this point."

"Indeed." There are footprints on the ground next to where they are walking. Sherlock knows that Lestrade will have noticed them as well. "This is obviously a person of above average intelligence. He hacked into the museum's security system, are we certain he did not do the same with the CCTV?"

"They say no," Lestrade replies just as Sherlock sees the beginning of a glow ahead of them. The forensics teams have brought in extra light sources to increase visibility.

Sherlock huffs. He'll have to call Mycroft, which is annoying, but his brother will be able to find out if the system has been hacked.

They walk until a jumble of voices is coming at them through tunnel.

"How's John doing?" Lestrade asks. Sherlock has been amazed by the number of people who seem put off by asking about John. They often ignore the fact that he is ill and when they do ask it is awkward and unpleasant. Lestrade asks easily and is generally interested.

"He was not feeling well this morning, but I believe that is anxiety as he has his fifth chemo treatment tomorrow."

Sherlock turns his torch off since the light from the scene is now reaching them. Lestrade nods and looks up at Sherlock. "Let me know if there's anything I can do. I miss seeing him when we call you." It is a genuine sentiment and Sherlock appreciates it. He knows that John will as well and makes a note to mention it to him when he gets home.

Sherlock pulls his phone out and is not surprised that there is no service. John is having pre-chemo blood tests and had promised Sherlock that he'd call when he got home. Sherlock knows that John is more than capable of making it to the doctor's office and back home, but Sherlock's general over-protectiveness has only increased during this ordeal. He works desperately to suppress it because John doesn't appreciate it.

He frowns as he puts his phone back in his pocket. _He's fine,_ he tells himself and he makes himself believe it just before he starts examining the coded message on the wall.

* * *

><p>Cold. So, so cold. His body is aching as his muscles seize, desperately trying to stay warm. He's in Afghanistan, on patrol, at night. He never expected Afghanistan to be so cold.<p>

Or so loud.

Afghanistan at night is rarely loud, especially on night patrol. He opens his eyes. It isn't night time. It is daytime. It's so bright it hurts. His eyes drift close again.

"Doctor Watson." He doesn't recognise the voice. "Doctor Watson, open your eyes for me again. Stay with me, please."

He opens his eyes and sees a pretty woman with long red hair. She smiles at him and he smiles back. She's really very pretty. When was she stationed here? Why hasn't he met her before? Will she have dinner with him?

No, no they can't.

"Sherlock," he mumbles, his teeth chattering.

"We're trying to get him, Doctor Watson, but his phone is either off or out of service. We're calling him though."

"Cold," he says. "So cold." Something moves by his legs and it's warm for a moment and then suddenly colder. It's cold everywhere, all over his body. And he's wet. Cold and wet.

It must be snowing, like when he'd make snow angels with Harry.

It's dark again and so loud. He wonders if the noise is friendly or foe. Nobody said anything to him about American patrols. One of the voices is American. It sounds familiar.

"Hugo," he says, but his tongue doesn't feel like it is working.

"Right here, John," he says in that booming Hugo voice. "I need you to open your eyes, buddy. I need you to stay awake. We're trying to find Sherlock."

"I'm cold," he says again. Hugo will get him a blanket.

"Not surprised," Hugo replies. "You're fever spiked while they were taking your blood. We've got you covered in ice."

"Oh," he says. That makes sense. Where is he? He tries to reach his arms up, he wants to cross them and warm up. They won't move.

Why didn't he insist on sleeping in the truck? He's a captain and a doctor. He deserves the truck not the sand. Why had he picked up a guard shift? He's a doctor in a war. There are better things he could be doing.

It's so loud.

And his arm hurts. "We're putting in an IV, John. We need to get you on some medication. We have to get this fever down. Can you help me out, John? Can you keep your eyes open for me?"

"I'm tired," he says, surprised to realise it. He doesn't remember getting tired, he doesn't remember doing anything.

"I know you're tired, John, but I need you to keep your eyes open for me."

"Sure."

The room is so bright. The light hurts. There's Hugo, standing next to him. There's an IV and he's hanging another small bag next to it. John tries to focus on the words, tries to figure out what they are, but he can't read it. It's blurry.

"Amoxicillin," Hugo says, "We don't know what you have yet."

John tries to nod but can't move his head. It's cold by his neck and it hurts. It's cold everywhere.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asks. Beautiful, beautiful Sherlock. He wants to look at Sherlock. He misses him.

"Don't know," Hugo says. "We were hoping you could tell us, we can't get him."

John closes his eyes. It's Afghanistan again. It's the desert and it's loud. Is it friendlies? He doesn't want to get shot again. It hurt. Shot. He went home when he was shot. He opens his eyes and Hugo isn't there anymore. He can hear him.

"He has a case," John whispers. He's so tired. He just wants to sleep. He's cold and he's tired.

"It's ringing," he hears somebody's voice.

He never knew the desert could be so cold. He hates Afghanistan and he wants to go home.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Holmes, it's Hugo."<p>

Sherlock stops moving, his feet suddenly nailed to the concrete. Something is wrong with John, he knows by Hugo's formality. His hard tone. The fact that it wasn't John on the phone.

"What happened?" Lestrade stops walking in front of him and turns around.

"John spiked a fever while waiting to give blood. It's high, Mr. Holmes, very high. I'm with him at University College A&E. Dr. Ryder is on the way here." Hugo pauses and Sherlock's stomach rises in his throat. Sherlock wants Hugo to stop speaking. He needs to shut up. John is fine, Sherlock just left him at home two hours ago.

"I'm going to cut to the chase, Mr. Holmes. You need to get here, now. It, well, it isn't good right now."

Sherlock just stands there. He doesn't know. He is nothing.

"Sherlock." It's Hugo again, but it isn't. Lestrade is pulling on the phone. Sherlock lets it go.

"What hospital?" Lestrade says and he and Hugo converse. They need to go. They need to go _now_.

John, he has to get to John.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock draws his legs against his chest. The sound of his plastic coveralls crinkling resonates in the silent room. One of the nurses turned the sound on all of the machines off and Sherlock almost misses the regular beeps and hums as they worked. He checks them routinely making sure that there are no changes.

There haven't been any deviations since the fever finally broke seven hours ago. John has not been awake either though.

Sherlock wants to reach over and touch John. But hewants to _touch_ John, he doesn't want the latex glove he's wearing to touch John. John might not recognise the touch if there is no skin on skin contact. And there can be no skin on skin contact, not until John is better.

_If_, pops into his mind, _if _John gets better. His chest swells with panic at the thought and then he mentally chastises himself and slaps his palm a little too hard against his forehead. That thought is not allowed. Of course John will get better.

John's head turns and he lets out a cough that is wet and shallow, followed by a few gasping breaths.

John is on antibiotics and decongestants for the pneumonia. He had not sounded congested before the drugs, but now, now he sounds like he's dying. The doctor's say it is better though, it's "breaking up."

Sherlock isn't certain he believes that, but the fever is down and he can see that in John's cheeks and colouring, in the machine that is monitoring his temperature.

The image of John covered in the bags of ice, his body shivering so badly that Sherlock was certain that it was a seizure is something he desperately wants to delete. John had been cold, so obviously cold, and they had just kept adding more bags, piling them around his neck.

So cold.

"Talk to him," Hugo had said. And Sherlock had leaned over, placing his lips near John's ear. He'd felt the flood of cool air coming off the ice bags. He'd shivered at the difference in temperature and was furious that they were doing this to John. He'd let the anger go and he'd talked to John.

He tips his head back and looks out the window. He can see the building next door and has watched it for hours. The man working in the office directly across from them is having an affair with the woman in the office next to his. Sherlock had watched them have sex four hours ago. He expects to see it again before the work day is complete.

He finds none of it interesting. He is unable to focus on any thoughts, ideas, anything. He can't even focus on John's condition. He can't move past the fact that he can't touch John. Certainly everything would be better if he could just touch John.

It's too dangerous though. "We don't know what he has. It's for your protection, Mr. Holmes, and his." It was the "and his" that guaranteed Sherlock would follow their instructions. He couldn't care less about becoming ill himself. He would do it gladly. He would take it all, the illness, the chemo, the surgery, the cancer. He would take it happily if John would be better. That realisation is a surprise, he does not like being ill or being in pain, but he loves John more. He loves John so much more.

He reaches a hand out and places it on John's chest. He hopes that the touch will be familiar through the t-shirt and the blankets. He hopes John will recognise that it's him, that he hasn't left. John can only have one visitor and Sherlock decided it will only be him. Harry had tried, asked to come in, but Sherlock had said no. He isn't willing to leave. Harry hadn't pushed him, but Sherlock knows that if John is here too long that she will insist. It will not be a pleasant conversation.

The heartbeat is steady under Sherlock's hand, not quite normal, but strong. He wishes, achingly, that he could slip his hand under the blanket, under the t-shirt, and against the muscles. The steady beat could pound against his hand the way it does most nights. He so desperately wants that.

He can see John, but he needs to feel John. He needs to feel that he's getting better.

John moves, letting out another quiet gasp, and it quickly deteriorates into a series of body shaking coughs. His eyes flutter open as Sherlock brings a tissue up to wipe John's mouth. They focus on Sherlock for just a moment, a flash of recognition crossing them, and John moves his head. He rests it towards Sherlock, shifting closer to his husband. And just as quickly his eyes close again. Sherlock discards the tissue in the super hazardous waste bin and puts his hand back on John's chest. His heart is faster now, the force of the coughing and the moment of being awake increasing the palpitations. Sherlock feels it as his breathing evens back out and his heart calms again.

When it is closer to the normal sleeping rhythm, Sherlock removes his hand and wraps his arms back around his knees. He looks back out of the window and notices that the woman from the office next door as returned. He closes his eyes as she starts to undo her buttons and just a moment later he is asleep.

* * *

><p>"The messages," comes the quiet voice and Sherlock looks towards the bed. He'd been studying the pigeons out of the window, realising that he knows surprisingly little about them. He turns his head, relief flooding his body at the sound of John's voice. John opens his mouth to speak again and the coughing begins.<p>

He sits forward, covering his mouth, and the wetness moves upwards from his lungs. Sherlock grabs a tissue and shoves it into John's hand. In a flash of calm John spits into it, and coughs again. Sherlock watches the chest constrict and release with each cough. He listens to the wet sounds as John's lungs try to clear themselves. His eyes move up, settling on John's face, a face turning red with the fluctuating oxygen supply. Sherlock reaches out again, placing his hand on John's chest. The doctor opens his eyes and a moment later the coughing quiets down.

When he is certain that the spell is over he holds up the contaminated waste container and John pushes the tissue inside.

"What happened with the messages?" John asks. He closes his eyes again but Sherlock knows that it is not to sleep.

"I do not know," Sherlock answers as John looks at him again. His eyes go wide, noticing for the first time that Sherlock is wearing a plastic coverall, a face mask, and latex gloves. "My husband became ill with pneumonia and I was forced to abandon my investigation."

Sherlock moves a gloved hand to rest on John's arm. John frowns, eyes looking about the room. After a moment his gaze turns inward, focusing on how he feels and on what is wrong.

"Pneumonia?" he asks taking a few deep breaths, the wheezing noise apparent to both of them. "I don't remember. I, where was I?" The brow furrows and Sherlock wants to reach up and run his thumb between the eyebrows. He wants to place a kiss there and ease the worry.

"Blood work," Sherlock answers. "You spiked a fever and they called an ambulance. Hugo accompanied you."

John shakes his head, the memory not coming to him. Sherlock closes the covered fingers over his bicep. John focuses on him, eyes glassy and exhausted. He'll be asleep again soon.

"You are doing better," Sherlock says. "Fighting it." A sudden wave of pride rushes over him. John is fighting, he's fighting every step of the way. Even the parts of him that he has no control over are working as hard as they can to keep him alive. Sherlock straightens, admiration joining the pride. John Watson is the strongest man he's ever known.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, "You almost di-," his voice catches and he shakes his head, pushing that idea away. "The fever was very serious, they initially could not bring it under control."

John mouth tightens and he covers Sherlock's hand with one of his. "I'm sorry." Sherlock smiles and knows that John can see it, despite the mask covering his mouth and nose.

"Don't be an idiot, John. You could not prevent this." A gloved finger brushes over a cheek, the stubble an odd texture against the latex. "Your temperature was lowered and you are being treated for the infection. The initial panic is over." Sherlock lies, the only emotion he has felt at all is panic. John does not need to hear that. He does not need to worry about anything other than continuing to improve.

They look at each other for several moments and the hazel eyes begin to drift closed again. John is fighting it though, wanting to stay awake. Sherlock smiles again. "Sleep," he says. "I will be here when you awake."

John nods as his eyes close. He is asleep almost instantly. His breathing evens out and Sherlock monitors his heartbeat again, satisfied that all is once again as it should be.

He studies his husband as he sleeps. His frame so much smaller than it should be, dark circles under the eyes because of the exhaustion. The image of those bags brings back the memory of walking into that room and being certain that John was dying, being certain that he was about to watch the last breath, the last beat of his heart, the last moment that his husband would be on the Earth. The cancer was intangible, a vague grouping of cells that he couldn't actually see. This, he saw, this, he felt. John had almost died of this.

* * *

><p>Sherlock removes his clothes and puts them into the plastic bag. He closes it, tying it in several knots before placing it into another plastic bag and tying that. He sets the bags by the front door and moves towards the bathroom.<p>

He showers, turning the water so hot that his skin becomes red and starts to tingle. He uses a flannel and starts at his toes. He scrubs his feet, up his legs, and across his torso. He doesn't miss a millimeter. He uses a massive amount of shampoo scrubbing through his hair and using his nails to scratch against every single hair. He rinses it and repeats the whole process again then gets out and cleans his teeth with the same concentration and detail.

He moves to his bedrooms and slips into freshly laundered clothing and new shoes. He grabs a latex glove from his box in the spare bedroom and picks up the plastic bag before heading down the stairs. He tosses it in the dumpster, adding it to the collection of bags containing the rest of the clothing he had worn while sitting with John this week. He will not risk it contaminating him again.

He head towards the street and hails a cab.

John has been moved to the regular room when he arrives. There will be no more coveralls, no more masks, no more gloves. He had hoped this would be the case. He did not wish to dispose of another set of clothes.

"Hi," John says, offering Sherlock a smile as he walks in. Sherlock returns it, relieved to see that Harry has not arrived yet. Now that John is allowed regular visitation she will be here daily. Generally her presence doesn't bother Sherlock, but he knows that she is not as meticulous in her cleanliness as he has been. She might contaminate John again. But that will be dealt with when she arrives.

Sherlock does not speak as he closes the distance between the door and the bed. He sits on the bed next to John and watches as the smile changes from welcoming to curious. John's colouring is better, his breathing no longer strained and wet. He is expected to be released in three days. Sherlock is anxious to get him home, and get him away from all the illness contained within the walls of the hospital. But that is also not an immediate concern.

Sherlock is anxious for something else now. He takes a breath and holds it, bringing his hand up, his index finger shaking slightly as he places it into the middle of John's forehead. Hazel eyes close as the finger trails down, moving over the nose and brushing across the lips, to the chin and up the jaw line. John shivers as the finger moves over his ear and over his eyebrow.

Sherlock's chest tightens as John's eyes open again. He swallows past a lump in his throat and rests his hand on John's chest. The cotton is cool under his hand, but there is warmth radiating up from the body underneath. His eyes burn and he tries to shake it away. He stops when a hand settles over his. The touch is achingly familiar as fingers push through Sherlock's curling inward and pressing into the palm.

"Sherlock," the voice brings the grey eyes up. Sherlock holds his breath, leans over and buries his face into John's neck. The doctor's body is warm against him, but not too warm, just normal John warm.

Normal John, still sick, still very sick, but John.

Sherlock feels the wetness on his cheek, it surprises him. He buries his face deeper against John. He feels fingers release his hand and a second later they mix into his hair. There is a light tug before those fingers start their gentle massage.

"I'm right here," comes the familiar voice. "It's okay, I'm right here." Sherlock gasps and lets go completely.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock crosses his legs and sits back in the chair, watching the people surrounding him in the restaurant. He can find very little of interest, these people are disturbingly boring. He looks up just as his brother takes the seat opposite him. Sherlock half expects to see an aide - or at least Anthea - but it appears that Mycroft is alone. Surprising.

"How is John today?" Mycroft enquires as he opens the menu. The waiter arrives before Sherlock can reply and Mycroft orders a bottle of wine. Sherlock arches an eyebrow and waits patiently. After a moment Mycroft sets the menu aside, interlaces his fingers and rest his hands on the table. When nothing is said for a moment he asks: "John?"

"Do you need to ask? The two of you have obviously conspired to force me into this meal."

Mycroft sighs and sits back in his chair. "There was no conspiracy. With the altered chemo schedule he realised he would be either ill or too tired to celebrate today. He is your husband and just wished for you to have something nice today. It is your birthday after all."

"And what are you getting out of it?" Sherlock leans forward slightly as the bottle of wine appears. Mycroft takes the corkscrew and shoos the waiter away.

"Despite your disbelief, I am simply having lunch with my brother at the request of his husband. I happen to think very highly of John and am happy to grant him this simple favour. He was relieved that there would be some sort of acknowledgement of your birthday."

"He wished me a happy birthday this morning." Sherlock says defensively. _Just before he convinced me to meet Mycroft for lunch, _he adds silently. John had pleaded with him, feeling guilt over not being well enough to go out. Sherlock finds the whole thing ridiculous. He does not need anything extraordinary on his birthday. John is home, generally well, and able to continue his cancer treatment. His continued recovery is far more satisfying than any gift.

"Consider if your situations were reversed. Would you not want him to do something more than sit at home while you slept?" Sherlock huffs, crosses his arms, and sits back. He looks away from Mycroft and towards a couple with a young child, feeling a hint of disgust that the child is allowed into such a restaurant. He knows that Mycroft is correct, he would not want John's birthday to pass without any acknowledgement other than a greeting of "happy birthday." Celebrating John's birth is too important for that. It is understandable that John would feel the same. Sherlock still does not like it.

Mycroft opens the menu, knowing that he has won, but he does not appear smug. "Have you decided what you are ordering?" he asks and seems genuinely curious. Sherlock is surprised that the previous conversation is over.

It appears that this is just lunch.

"The salmon," he answers and Mycroft nods. He studies the menu another moment before closing it.

"I believe I will have the same, it will go well with the wine." Sherlock nods, watching as his brother reaches for the bottle and the corkscrew and begins to open it. The waiter immediately makes his way back over and they order.

The building is quiet as Sherlock opens the door. Mrs. Hudson had left that morning to attend her nephew's wedding. Sherlock had been reluctant to leave John with nobody around, especially since the infection, but John had insisted.

And he had probably slept the whole time Sherlock was gone.

John underwent chemo four days ago, his first treatment since recovering from the pneumonia, and had done little else but sleep. While preferable to actually being sick, the exhaustion was not exactly welcome. They had been warned that the reaction to chemo might be more severe since John's illness, but this was not what Sherlock had anticipated. He had not anticipated John being almost comatose for days on end.

Sherlock reminds himself constantly that the sleep is helping John heal.

He opens the door to his flat and is not surprised to be met with silence. It is the warm silence of John asleep. Sherlock takes off his coat and moves towards the kitchen to put his leftovers away and pauses when he sees that John is asleep on the couch.

Sherlock looks him over for a moment, surprised that John is dressed in regular clothing instead of the pyjamas or sweats in which he prefers to sleep. There is also the recognisable scent of soap, meaning that John has showered since Sherlock left.

Sherlock takes a step towards the couch when a flash of light catches his eye. He looks round to see a silver banner hanging in the doorway to the kitchen. It has 'Happy Birthday' written in alternating red, blue, and green lettering. It is hung lower than would be ideal, but right at John height. He would have been too tired to climb onto a chair to put it higher.

Sherlock smiles at it before spotting a handful of packages sitting on the kitchen table next to a small cake. He walks towards the kitchen, surprised by the gesture and that John managed to do this without him knowing. He wonders vaguely if Mycroft had known but decides it does not matter.

He recognises the cake as coming from the bakery just around the corner. John must have walked down there and picked it up. Sherlock examines the packages; they have clearly been wrapped by John. He traces his fingers over them, wondering what each small parcel contains. If he concentrates he would be able figure it out but he would rather enjoy opening them with John watching. John has shown an amazing ability to pick out presents for him and genuinely enjoys it when Sherlock likes a gift.

Sherlock collects the small packages and moves them to the coffee table. He sets each one down gingerly just in case the contents are fragile. He then moves the cake, bringing the candles that are sitting next to it. He then grabs a pack of matches from John's desk drawer and settles on the floor between the coffee table and the couch.

He reaches a hand up and cups John's face. "John," he whispers and hazel eyes open slowly. They look around for a moment before he stretches.

"Hello," he says through a yawn. "How was lunch?"

Sherlock shrugs and offers a smile. "Delicious," he offers, exaggerating slightly. He wants John to believe that he enjoyed it more than he actually did. "I wish it had been with you though."

John offers him a sad smile and nods. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there." He pauses, looking at the presents and the cake. "Happy birthday," he says and Sherlock watches as the smile becomes genuine and happy.

"Thank you," Sherlock says. "I wish for you to sing to me now." John laughs as Sherlock starts to insert the candles into the cake. The sound of John's laughter bounces off the walls and warms the whole flat. Sherlock smiles as he lights the match and places it against each wick. He shakes it out and turns towards John, waiting.

John's eyes are full of delight as he turns onto his side so the he can better see Sherlock. "You really want me to sing?"

"Certainly," Sherlock says. "You have done it in the past." John rolls his eyes.

"Fine." He takes a breath and quickly sings _happy birthday_. Sherlock is delighted, this tradition is not one that was actively practiced during his childhood. When John is done, Sherlock happily blows the candles out and leans over to give his husband a quick kiss.

"Thank you," he says as he pulls back. He pushes the cake away, not particularly interested in it at the moment, and puts his back against the couch, feeling John's hand settle into his hair, pulling gently on the curls. Sherlock reaches for the largest present, pulls the bow off and tosses it aside, turning to look at John before he rips into the package.

John's hazel eyes are shining at him and he brings his hand around and runs an index finger across Sherlock's lips.

"Go ahead," John says and Sherlock turns back, grabbing one of the flaps and ripping the paper off.


	14. Chapter 14

John's phone rings and he glances at the screen, seeing Sherlock's face looking back at him. He stares at it - it's one of his favourite pictures. A real smile lights up his grey eyes and, just a moment after, Sherlock had started laughing. John remembers it so vividly.

The picture fades when he doesn't answer the call. John stares at the blank screen until the photo appears again. He admires it some more, not answering.

When the picture appears for the third time, John slides his finger over the screen and holds it against his ear.

"John? Where are you?" John can hear the concern in the voice. It should annoy him but it doesn't.

"Home," he answers, knowing that is not where he is supposed to be.

"Why are you not at the surgery receiving your treatment? They have been trying to contact you and called me when they could not reach you."

John inhales and the cool autumn air hurts his lungs, a lasting effect of the pneumonia. He watches people walking by through the open window. Regular people just going about their day. That is life. That is the world. Everything continuing as before, as if nothing has changed.

"I'm not going to have any more treatments." There is a little girl walking with her mother. She must be about six. He touches the window, brushing his fingers near where she is walking. She appears to be healthy.

"What are you talking about?" The voice is different now, a hint of fear apparent underneath. John opens his mouth. He doesn't want Sherlock to be afraid. Before John can speak though, Sherlock continues. "Of course you are going to have more treatments. You only have seven left. You are more than half way."

John closes his eyes and feels the cool breeze as it moves past him and into the flat. Goose bumps sweep across his body; he savours the sensation.

"I don't want to sleep anymore, Sherlock. I'm so tired of being tired. I don't want to do it anymore."

"John?" Sherlock says. "You are being stupid. You could di- You need the treatments to get better."

Maybe he'll go for a walk. Regent's Park is so beautiful at this time of year.

"John?" Sherlock says again, annoyed that he has not received a response.

"What?"

"Your treatments? Are you participating in this conversation? Hugo has rescheduled you for this afternoon at three. I will meet you there."

John shakes his head. "No, I don't want to."

"This is not optional. Are you dressed? I will head to the flat now and I'll accompany you."

"No," John says putting some force behind his words. "I can't. It doesn't make sense to continue. None of it makes sense."

There is a long pause - if it weren't for Sherlock's breathing John would have thought he'd rung off.

"I don't understand," Sherlock finally says. He never admits that, it surprises John. "What doesn't make sense?"

John frowns, not wanting to say it. He doesn't want to think about it. He wants to feel good again and go for a walk in Regent's Park. Maybe Sherlock will go with him. They can hold hands and sit on a bench and cuddle up. Sherlock can complain about it while trying to keep the smile off his face. John likes when Sherlock tries to pretend he doesn't like something.

"What happened?" Sherlock finally asks and John is quiet. He feels something on his cheek and brings his hand up. It's wet. He's crying. He pushes his palm into his cheek, wiping the moisture away. He repeats the action on the other side.

"She died," he says, hearing the tears in his voice. He wonders how long they've been there. He wonders if Sherlock knows. Then shakes his head - of course Sherlock knows.

"Who?" Sherlock asks. "Who died, John?"

"Cassie," John sobs. He backs up, collapsing onto the sofa. "Six, Sherlock. She was only six."

He rests his forehead into his palm and lets the tears come. "Six," he repeats barely able to understand his own voice.

Sherlock is talking to him, his voice a constant babble in John's ear. He doesn't understand the words though. He can't hear them.

"Why?" he asks to no one. "I don't understand, Sherlock. Why?"

"I don't know," he hears, foreign words exiting Sherlock's mouth. "I'll be there in ten minutes, John."

John nods, feeling a tear land on his thigh.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson is walking out the door as Sherlock reaches it. He ploughs past her, listening to the noises on the other end of the phone. Quiet sobs are the only noises he's heard since he caught a cab thirteen minutes ago. Each time John gasps Sherlock's body aches.<p>

He pushes through the door of the flat and is halfway up the stairs before he realises the noises are coming from the living room. He turns and stumbles down two steps before getting the rhythm back. He drops his phone on the end table then sits down on the couch next to John. Sherlock eases the phone out of John's grip, sets it aside, then pulls his husband towards him.

The sobbing intensifies as John turns, burying his face into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock holds him, running one hand up and down the now prominent spine. He leans down and presses his lips into the soft blond hair.

John has lost some of it, not a lot, but it has definitely thinned out.

"I'm so tired," Sherlock hears.

"I know," he whispers back. "I know."

Sherlock adjusts until he can completely wrap himself around John, cocooning the small body against his. The sobs continue, wracking John with the same force that nightmares and illness do.

"I don't want to do it anymore. I just - I'm so tired."

"I know," Sherlock says, mentally chastising himself for the useless platitude. He doesn't know. He has no idea, not really.

John nods against him, tightening his arms around Sherlock's back. Sherlock shifts again. His shirt is partially soaked with John' tears.

After several long minutes, the sobs begin to taper off but Sherlock doesn't loosen his hold.

"She was only six," John says again. "She fought her whole life and lost. Why should I win?"

Sherlock is shocked by the calm in the voice. He wonders how long these ideas have been in John's head. This clearly is not something caused by the child's death. A child John hardly knew.

"I fail to believe that you and she were mutually exclusive. You do not get to live simply because she did not. There are two completely different sets of variables involved. Her can– her illness was more aggressive than yours. You told me that yourself." John sighs and then sniffles. Sherlock places another kiss into the soft hair. He knows that the tears aren't done, just on hold. John's body is still tense, his muscles still twitching underneath his skin.

"I am compelled to point out that if you stop treatment then there is no guarantee that you will not die." Sherlock struggles on the last word, his throat tightening around it. His voice catches as he continues. "Even if - even if you complete treatment there is no guarantee."

"It's so hard." Sherlock nods, stopping himself from speaking. He knows that it is hard, it is hard for him. It is hard to watch his husband suffer, hard to be powerless, hard to not be able to make it better. He does not know what John feels, he does not know what it is like to have his body terrorised by the disease and the treatment.

It is with a flash of horror that Sherlock realises that if John asked, if John really wanted to stop the treatments, he'd understand. He understands the appeal of giving up the fight, accepting defeat and death on your own terms. He inhales a shaking breath and squeezes John closer.

But John is not losing. It makes no sense to stop.

Every PET scan has shown improvement, every single one.

"Please," Sherlock whispers. He mentally adds '_for me_'but does not voice it. It cannot be for him, he knows that.

John's body tenses for a moment and then sags. Sherlock feels the weight of it press against him. It is a gesture of defeat and Sherlock has a flash of panic before John nods.


	15. Chapter 15

John hears Harry's voice just before she exits the guest bedroom into the hall.

"Yes he ate breakfast. And he ate lunch and dinner yesterday." She looks at John as she enters the living room and he shakes his head before turning back to stare out the window. He wants to climb the stairs to his bedroom and go back to bed but Harry won't allow that. He is, after all, a small child who must be watched every second of every day.

"He's taking a nap right now but I'll have him call you when he wakes up," she lies and John smiles, knowing that Sherlock knows that she is lying. John also knows that Sherlock knows that he is avoiding him and the doctor finds some satisfaction in that. He pushes down the feeling of guilt at the realisation. Let Sherlock suffer for a while.

"All right," Harry says. "Good luck," she adds and he hears her set the phone down.

"You can't avoid him forever," she says.

"Of course I can," he says, not turning to look at her.

She sighs and slumps down into a chair. John turns his head slightly and sees her reflection in the window. She's in his chair.

"He's just worried about you," she says. "You've hardly been yourself since that little girl died."

He snaps his head around and glares at her. "Her name was Cassie. For fuck's sake, am I the only one who gives a damn?"

"Of course not," Harry replies, completely unfazed by his words. "I'm very sorry that she died. I'm sorry that she was sick and for her family's loss. I am more concerned about _my_ brother though, just as Sherlock is more concerned about _his_ husband."

John turns away, staring out the window. He isn't going to say anything else. After a moment he hears Harry shift to grab another one of the photo albums she's been going through. She brought her laptop and scanner for her weekend babysitting excursion and has been making copies of all of the family photos that John has. She's tried to engage him in pointless voyages of nostalgia but he's avoided them.

He hears her set the album down, obviously finding nothing of interest, and turns his head to glance at her. She's pulled out the black one with the red writing in the corner.

"You don't want to go through that one," he says and she lifts her head, opening it as she looks at up him. John can just see the outline of the first photo.

"Why?" she asks a second before she lets her eyes drift down again, settling on a picture of her very naked brother in the shower. John feels the smile cross his face as the horror crosses hers. Harry slams the album closed and pushes it away so hard it hits the floor and John laughs.

The sound bounces of the walls in the room. Harry looks up, face still contorted in disgust.

"That's Sherlock's dirty album," John says, chuckling. "You probably want to avoid the purple and red ones as well."

She snaps her head around to stare at the small shelf, eyeing the albums in question. "Three?" She turns back to look at him. "You have three of them."

"Four if you count the on-going one that's in the bedroom drawer." Harry sits back, shock plastered across her face.

"Ew," she says and shakes her head, as if to dislodge the image. "That's repulsive."

John laughs again, turning his attention back to the window.

"I knew you could still do that," she says and he looks back to her again.

"What?"

She smiles. "Laugh. None of us have heard it in a while."

John feels his chest tighten and then forces himself to relax. He thinks about it for a moment and honestly can't remember the last time he laughed. He can't remember the last time he'd smiled. He can't remember the last time he was happy.

"You're depressed, John," Harry says simply. He meets her eyes. "It's not a bad thing or something to be ashamed of. It's not that different than when you came back from Afghanistan. You're sick, it's normal to be pissed off and sad because of that."

"No it isn't," he says. "Cassie was never depressed and she died." He turns back to the window. "Mum was never depressed and she died."

"John?" He turns back. "Of course Mum was depressed. All the time, especially towards the end."

He shakes his head, not believing her. He was there, he'd have noticed. "She never…"

"She never wanted _you_ to know," Harry says. "You were in Africa helping victims of genocide or you were in America doing medical combat training or you were in Afghanistan getting shot at in a war. She never wanted _you_ to worry. She never wanted _you_ to think she was weak."

John shakes his head again, "No," he says. "She was always happy, cheerful. I talked to her on the phone, Harry. She never said…" he trails off. She'd gone through a much more aggressive chemo treatment than his. He'd watched it wrack her body, he'd watched her vomit. He'd watched her put on a smile and say that it wasn't that bad.

He gives a quiet laugh of disbelief. He knows better than that. She did chemo for years, he'd only done it for six months. Of course she'd lied to him. Of course she denied it. It was the type of thing she'd do.

"I can't believe she did this so long," he says. "Her treatments were so much more aggressive than mine, and I - I just don't see how she did it so long."

"What choice did she have?" Harry asks. "She didn't want to die."

John looks at his sister a moment, seeing their mother in her features. He can see her when he looks at himself in the mirror sometimes. He thinks about what he's going through and what she went through.

"Yes," he says. "Sometimes she did."

* * *

><p>Harry had consented to let him go to bed just after 21:00. He had been awake all day after all. He'd climbed the stairs gratefully, not wanting to think about anything anymore.<p>

He knows that Harry is right. He knows that Sherlock is right. He is depressed.

He finds that he doesn't really care.

He rolls over, his pyjama bottoms twisting uncomfortably around his waist as he does so. Sherlock had been dutiful about making sure that he always had a few items of clothing that fit. The pyjama bottoms were the smallest size he'd been able to find and were now too large.

John sighs as he lifts his hips, adjusting them. He's just going to have to start sleeping in the nude or just boxers or something.

He thinks about his mum going through this. His whole life she had been stoic, it had been no different when she'd been ill. He'd been in Turkey when she called him, a U.N. cleanup mission after an earthquake. It had been horrible, body parts being pulled from the rubble. He'd been relieved to hear her voice, a voice of comfort and home.

It had lasted less than a minute. He'd heard 'cancers', 'ovaries', and 'spread'. That was it. He'd hit his knees. He knew she'd been sick, she'd been sick for a while. He had noticed the subtle changes, the small complaints. He'd tried to get her to go to the doctor. She refused, she always refused.

He'd known it was bad for her, that it must have been horrible, but had let himself be fooled. He hadn't wanted to think of her suffering. He hadn't wanted to be far away and unable to help.

He hadn't wanted her to die, and she would have wanted the same or him. She was his mum. She'd have wanted him to be happy and he used to be happy.

He sighs, thinks of Cassie then pushes her away. He is tired of it all, tired of being sick, tired of fighting, tired of everything.

He rolls over again, shifting as he does so, preventing his pyjamas from bunching. His head lands on Sherlock's pillow and he turns so that he can smell his husband there. He loves that smell.

Harry's voice comes back to him. "He's just worried about you." He hasn't talked to Sherlock in two days, not since he left for Cardiff. He is being required to give testimony concerning a case he'd worked years ago. Sherlock had fought it but it was unavoidable. He'd gone to Harry, asked her to stay with John, and John had been irate.

It seems silly now. They were just worried about him.

John sits up and stares at the clock, 2:49. He is momentarily shocked, unable to recall the last time he'd been unable to sleep. In fact it seems that all he's done for months is sleep.

He grabs his mobile from the table and punches in Sherlock's number.

"John?" comes the shocked voice. There is no hint of sleep there and John is not surprised. Sherlock doesn't sleep well when he has to sleep alone.

"I can't sleep," John says not offering an apology for his anger or the fact that he's ignored Sherlock. He knows that Sherlock will understand the call and its motivations.

"That is unusual," Sherlock says and John knows that he's stating the obvious simply to have something to say. "Is there a particular problem? Are you feeling ill?"

"No," John says. "I - I just can't stop thinking. Harry and I talked about Mum tonight. And Cassie. And you." He stops for a moment before adding: "I miss you." He lets words sink in before continuing with: "Harry is driving me crazy."

Sherlock chuckles and it brings a smile to John's face. "I will be home tomorrow evening, late probably. I miss you, too." The silence is awkward for a moment and John doesn't like it. It isn't supposed to be that way with them. He speaks to alleviate it.

"How do you do it? Your brain wanders all over the place all the time. How do you make it quiet? How do you sleep?"

There is another quiet moment. "I don't. I cannot make the thoughts go away, you do that."

"I'm sorry?" John asks.

"Until I met you I rarely had silence. With you, I only require your presence."

"Oh," John says, not knowing what else to add. "I, well, I-"

There is more silence, not awkward this time. "Harry found one of the dirty albums today," he says berating himself for not saying something else.

A second passes and a bellowing laugh erupts out of Sherlock. John closes his eyes and lets it warm him.

Sherlock stops laughing and the silence returns. John takes a deep breath and holds it for just a second, before he speaks. "I - I'll call Dr. Ryder in the morning and ask about anti-depressants."

Sherlock lets out a relieved sigh and John feels a wave of guilt. He hasn't been easy to live with the last few weeks. Sherlock doesn't deserve that.

"Thank you," Sherlock says.


	16. Chapter 16

The room is cold. Either that or he's cold - he can't tell the difference anymore. John glances at Sherlock and his husband provides no insight on the matter. Sherlock has taken his coat off, but still has the dark burgundy scarf wrapped around his neck. _Although_, John thinks with a smile, _that could be because of the bruise I put there two nights ago._ He'd been feeling better since he'd started taking the anti-depressants, much better.

He watches his husband a minute, leaning against the small counter opening the drawers and peeking in the cabinets. A handful of tongue depressors and cotton swabs had miraculously disappeared into the pockets of Sherlock's suit jacket. John watches him open another drawer and hold up a syringe, examining it for a moment with an eyebrow raised in interest. When Sherlock glances at him and John simply shakes his head. The detective frowns but sets the syringe down and closes the drawer.

Sherlock sighs and crosses his arms. He glares at the door for a moment before sighing again and shifting his weight against the counter.

"We haven't been waiting that long," John says. Sherlock glares at him.

"It's inconsiderate to have to wait at all," he snaps and John smiles. He knows that it's nerves and not actual agitation causing this mood.

"I'm not her only patient," John says and Sherlock huffs.

"You're the only one of consequence."

John chuckles, adjusting on the examination table, then opens his mouth to respond but a quiet knock on the door prevents it. He stiffens and sees Sherlock straighten out of the corner of his eye. John mumbles an incoherent 'come in' and sits up, trying to release the tension in his back.

Dr. Ryder smiles as she lets the door close behind. For a moment everything slows down. He hears Sherlock take a step, watches Dr. Ryder take one. He feels his lungs expand as he inhales and his pulse pounds in his temple in response. Then Sherlock's hand settles between his shoulder blades and in a flash everything is normal again. John takes in a deep breath and holds it, releasing it slowly as Sherlock's hand moves down his back.

Dr. Ryder sits back in her chair, crossing her legs, looking between John and Sherlock a few times before settling on John. He tries to read something there, tries to understand, but he can see nothing in her features to give the results away. He risks a glance up at Sherlock and notices that his husband is looking at him, not at her. He meets the grey eyes for a second before turning back to look at Dr. Ryder.

"How are you feeling, John? Better on the anti-depressants?"

He smiles, knowing that it was the right first question to ask. He's still her patient, no matter what the most recent PET scan reveals.

"Better," he says, taking another deep breath. "Much better."

"Good," she says. "Hopefully, as we move through the end of the chemo and into the radiotherapy we can lower the dosage and get you back off of them."

John nods. "That would be good," he says simply because something is required from him. Sherlock's hand moves back up and a thumb starts to dig into the back of his neck.

Dr. Ryder taps her finger on the tablet and brings up the image. "Well, on to the reason you're really here." She holds the image up and John looks it over, knowing what to look for now. He scans all the areas where the cancer had been, eyeing each spot expertly. He flashes to Sherlock just as the detective turns his head to look at the image as well. He's looking over it again when Dr. Ryder says: "It's clear."

John's eyes snap back to hers - not that the news is unexpected; she told them after the last one that she expected this one to be clear. But he still doesn't believe it. Sherlock sighs and his hand drops back to between John's shoulder blades.

"Thank god," John hears his husband mumble. The hand reaches around him and John knows in an instant that Sherlock is going to hug him. He gulps in a breath and stiffens. Sherlock stops moving, understanding instantly that the gesture isn't welcome.

John holds out his hand, wanting the tablet. Dr. Ryder hands it over and John holds it close, almost against the tip of his nose. He studies for a minute before bringing his fingers up to expand the image.

"You're sure," he says, looking again.

"Positive," she replies. "You'll do the remaining five chemo treatments, but we won't need to extend them. We'll follow that with radiotherapy, but, as of this moment, you're cancer free. You reacted perfectly to the treatment, Dr. Watson, text book case."

John tries to inhale. He can't get the breath though, he can't hold it. His chest aches for air. He realises that the tablet is slipping from his fingers and has a flash of panic at having to replace it, but he hears a soft clap as it lands in Sherlock's hand. Everything is slow again. Sherlock hands the tablet back to Dr. Ryder. She is standing as she accepts it, her smile mixed with just a flash of concern. Sherlock's hand is moving across John's back again, and the one that caught the tablet is moving up to join the other.

The arms are warm, familiar, and snap John back into the moment. He gasps in a breath just as he feels lips on his temple. He manoeuvers his arm to wrap around Sherlock's waist. John pulls him closer and turns to bury his face into his husband's scarf.

* * *

><p>"Can we walk?" John asks, reaching over to interlock his fingers through Sherlock's. "I want to walk, through the park maybe."<p>

Sherlock looks over at him, nose crinkling at the prospect. It's cold, too cold to walk really, but John doesn't want to go home. Not yet, anyway. John holds his husband's gaze, watching concern slowly give way to acceptance and desire to make John happy.

"If we must," he concedes, pulling on his scarf and coat as if this will somehow keep him warmer.

"Thank you," John says, quickening his pace as they walk around a corner.

"The temperature could be detrimental to your health," Sherlock points out with no real concern behind his words. John almost laughs at him. He is certain at that nothing could be detrimental to his health in this moment. He feels good, euphoric even. He knows that he hasn't felt like this in months.

He feels fucking giddy.

"Will you take me to dinner?" John takes a couple quick steps, moving to stand in front of Sherlock and turning so that he's walking backwards, pulling Sherlock along. "Take me to dinner, Sherlock? Take me out?"

Sherlock frowns and John knows that watching him almost bounce down the street isn't his most ideal scenario. Sherlock can't keep the smile from touching the corner of his lips though, and John never misses the sparkle in the grey eyes.

"If you wish to go to dinner I am certain I can arrange that. Do you have a preference?"

"Not at all," John says. "But I'm starving so some place where I can get a huge meal."

"I appreciate your desire to eat, but you're aware that you won't be able to consume as much as you're anticipating."

John chuckles at that, turning again to fall back into step with Sherlock. "I can try," John says. They are quiet for several moments before Sherlock speaks again.

"Would you like to go out after dinner? I thought perhaps you'd like to go to one of the jazz clubs that you always drag me to - completely unwillingly of course."

John laughs again. "I'd love it. We haven't gone out in -" he slows a little, realising that it's been months, since before the cancer.

"Eight months, three weeks, three days and approximately five hours," Sherlock says. John glances up at him and Sherlock continues. "I say approximately because I'm uncertain of the time we left to attend the Keb' Mo' concert. You were wearing the blue dress shirt and were distracted slightly as we tried to leave."

John brings up the memory - it had been a good show. They'd missed the opening act but Keb' Mo' had not disappointed. He was sick only about a week later. John swallows hard, realising suddenly just how long ago that was.

"I'm sorry," John says. "These, well, these last few months have been horrible for you. I've been…"

"You've been ill," Sherlock fills in, voice sharp, curt. "You will not apologise for that. And if you are under the impression that I've been mourning the loss of the never ending serious of jazz concerts, you are clearly mistaken. As usual."

"But – I -"

"No," Sherlock snaps, shaking his head. "No," he says again. His fingers tighten around John's and the doctor stops trying to apologise.

They walk silently again, entering into Regent's Park and getting blasted with a cold breeze. John knows that this wasn't the best idea but he takes a deep breath and savours the cold in his lungs. He closes his eyes and lets Sherlock lead him along the path.

"I'd like to hear some music tonight, after you take me out to dinner," John says after a moment not bothering to open his eyes. He feels Sherlock's gaze turn to him and stutters a step as the pace changes.

"Any place you like," Sherlock whispers, John barely hearing it over a gust of wind.

"The living room," John says opening his eyes and watching Sherlock's brain work, trying to recall the place or the type of music. "Our living room," John clarifies. He stops walking and Sherlock stops, a half a step ahead in response. John pulls on his husband's hand and draws him back. "Play for me. You haven't played for me in ages. We can go out to dinner and then go home and you can play. Please."

John notices the flash of pleasure cross Sherlock's feature. Sherlock loves to play for John. When they first became a couple John had been shocked to learn that he was one of the few people who'd ever asked Sherlock to play just because he liked to hear it. John couldn't tell the difference between a good musician and a great one, but he knew he liked Sherlock.

"Of course," Sherlock says, features softening as he looks at John. John smiles and stands on his toes, planting his lips against his husbands.

* * *

><p>Sherlock watches John climb up the stairs ahead of him. The energy that had consumed his husband that afternoon has dissipated, but not as much as Sherlock had anticipated. The detective thought there would be an adrenaline crash but John had stayed awake all afternoon, through dinner, and all the way home.<p>

It makes the detective smile.

"I ate entirely too much," John says as he reaches their front door. He rests his hands on his stomach as Sherlock comes up behind him with the key. Sherlock steals a quick kiss before pushing the door open.

"You ate more than I did," Sherlock states. "A feat that hasn't been accomplished in months."

John chuckles, reaching to grab the bag of leftovers. Sherlock hands it over and then drops his keys on the little table. He hears John move into the kitchen and then the refrigerator opening and closing. Sherlock hangs his coat and moves to the living room. He hears John move behind him and a coat being tossed over the back of the chair.

"Request?" Sherlock asks, reaching for the violin case. He looks over his shoulder as John settles on the couch. He looks tired, the day and overeating finally catching up with him.

Sherlock opens his mouth intending to say they can do it another day, but John speaks first.

"What's the one for the strings, the long one." Sherlock withholds a groan at John's inability to recall the titles of classical pieces. He opens his mouth to chastise when John starts to hum. Sherlock recognises the song immediately.

"Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto," Sherlock says and John's eyes light up.

"Yes," he says. "That one." Sherlock frowns; John has never shown an inclination toward that piece or toward Mendelssohn in general. The doctor shrugs. "I like watching you while you play that one."

Sherlock eyes him for another moment before clicking the locks open and pulling out his instrument. For a fleeting instant the weight is odd in his hands - his playing has cut down significantly since John's illness. He sets the instrument aside and removes the bow and tightens it before dragging the rosin over the fine hairs.

He stands and John shuffles on the couch.

"Sit," John says. Sherlock turns to see John is on his side, his back pressed into the cushions. He pats the couch in front of his stomach and Sherlock moves to do as instructed. John's hand settles on his thigh as he starts to play.

The first movement is the longest and John starts snoring about halfway through it. Sherlock plays on, smiling as the familiar sounds of his sleeping husband accompany him. He closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of John pressed against his lower back and the happiness of the notes as they leave his violin.


	17. Epilogue

John settles on a bench and looks out over the water. Spring has taken hold and the new green of the season surrounds him. As he watches, a duck moves out from under a willow with her ducklings following closely behind. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He smiles at the new life, having a newfound appreciation for it – and for spring.

His phone announces he has a text message and he takes another deep breath. He knows that it's Sherlock wondering where he is. He should have been home half an hour ago. He couldn't just go home though, he had to walk, had to experience spring.

When it rings he pulls it out of his pocket and answers it.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asks before John can say hello. There is concern in the tone and John realises that he hasn't heard that in a while, hasn't heard the worry or the fear. Not since the end of the chemo.

"Yeah," John says. "I just wanted to walk through the park. I - I just, - I realised today that it's over. I just did the last radiotherapy treatment, all my PET scans are clear." He paused, watching the baby ducks. "I'm in remission."

There is quiet on the other end of the line and John smiles. He knows Sherlock has all the information, but he wonders if his husband had realised that it was indeed over. Hopefully forever.

"I should have come with you," Sherlock says, no real regret in his voice. He'd wrapped up a case at four that morning and had still been asleep when John left. John had planted a quiet kiss on the dark curls and left for treatment one last time.

The treatment itself had seemed rather anti-climactic – the radiotherapy paled in comparison to the chemo.

"Not necessary, it only took ten minutes. Harry is taking me to lunch, come with us?"

Sherlock groans on the other end of the phone and John smiles again. "Where?" he asks and John can hear him moving around.

"The Stafford, in about an hour." Sherlock groans again but John knows he's consenting.

"Are you coming home first?" Sherlock asks and John can here the hopefulness there; Sherlock wants a quick shower shag. The idea is very tempting – they're still catching up for almost nine months with very little sex. But the ducks draw his attention, and the flowers.

"No, I'm going to walk a little longer. I'll meet you there." A displeased grunt from Sherlock. "I love you."

Another grunt and moving around, Sherlock is heading towards the shower. "I love you, too," he says, begrudgingly. John knows that Sherlock would rather the afternoon be spent with just the two of them. He can understand that, but he wants to see Harry too. He wants to thank her.

He plans on talking to Sherlock about going away for a weekend, just the two of them. Or maybe camping out in the flat and shutting out the world for a few days. No phones, no internet, nothing but the two of them. The idea sounds delightful.

"I'll see you there," John says and Sherlock grumbles something before ringing off. John smiles at his phone before pushing himself to his feet. He's going to walk up by the Palace and have an ice cream before heading to lunch.

* * *

><p>"She's waiting in the back room for ya, mate," the host tells John when he says that he's meeting his sister. He points at a set of wood doors on the right of the room and John manoeuvers through the crowd to them, hearing Mycroft's weasel-like laugh just before he enters the room.<p>

He smiles; he shouldn't be surprised.

He pushes the door open and is greeted with two dozen faces that he recognises. They all turn as he walks in and there is an eruption of applause. His cheeks ache as his grin grows. He opens his arms and Harry steps into them.

"Congratulations," she whispers in his ear as he hugs her close. She grips tightly around his neck and she plants a kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you," he says, glancing over her shoulder and seeing the room full of his friends and family – including his husband. Sherlock is standing awkwardly in the back of the room, eyeing everyone critically. John watches him until grey eyes meet his then winks at him and Sherlock's crooks an eyebrow as Harry pulls away. John places a quick kiss against her cheek before backing away and turning his attention to Mrs. Hudson.

He makes his way around the room, accepting good wishes and giving hugs and handshakes. He's glad to see everyone, glad they've done this for him. He keeps his eye on Sherlock the whole time though, watching the displeasure turn into anxiousness. As John accepts a hug from Sarah, Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't share John well, especially with old girlfriends. John is careful to move away quickly, turning to shake hands with Mycroft.

When he's greeted everyone else he moves to stand in front of his husband. Sherlock plasters a look of indifference on his face but John can see the flicker of emotion in his eyes.

This is it after all. The treatments are done. The illness is over. He's just John again. Plain John. Sherlock's John. He's even starting to look like John again, he's gained weight, he's eating like normal.

This is the last step and Sherlock is nervous.

John takes a step towards to him, brings his hands up, and cups Sherlock's face. He stands tall, and places his lips against his husband's. Sherlock stiffens at the public display, but quickly relaxes.

John pulls back and stares up at his husband. The façade is gone and the emotions are showing. They make John's chest tighten.

"It's over," Sherlock whispers and John nods. His throat hurts as he presses his body into Sherlock's. Long arms wrap around him and settles his own along Sherlock's neck.

"Thank you," John whispers, "for everything, Sherlock. Thank you."

Sherlock nods, burying his face into John's neck. John feels Sherlock take an unsteady breath against him and squeezes his husband tighter, feeling fingers digging into his back.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispers shakily in return.

* * *

><p>AN – Thanks ScopesMonkey for the amazing piece of advice you gave me concerning this story. Brilliant! And thanks to everyone who read it, enjoyed it, and related to it. Cancer sucks.


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